Blood Family
by skyflower51
Summary: When her father dies in mysterious circumstances, Sissel finds herself adopted by an equally mysterious adventurer. She's determined to uncover the identity of her foster father - but her search for answers may put her life in peril. And the truth about why he took her in might be far darker than she ever imagined.
1. Frosted Blood

BLOOD FAMILY

* * *

CHAPTER ONE – FROSTED BLOOD

Sissel was bleeding, and she hated it.

It hurt, for one thing. Of course it hurt. It was a cut. Cuts did hurt. But there was more to it than that. It meant that she had to stop and sit by the roadside in the pitch dark, tugging her skirt up over her knee and squinting through the blackness to try to examine the damage. It meant that she had to press her hands over her knee to stop the blood, and since she'd not had time to properly clean her hands… well, she might be only ten years old, but she knew about infection risks. But more important than that, it meant that she'd be home late. Not that her father ever batted an eyelid if she was home late.

And that was the problem. Because she'd come in late, hours after night had fallen, with bloodstains on her hands and a tear in her skirt. And her father wouldn't even look up from his mead, except to order her to bed. She'd have to curl up beneath the blanket and press her face against her pillow to stifle her tears, because nothing good would come of Britte hearing her crying.

She couldn't help it. Any reminder of how little her father cared tended to bring on tears.

Sissel tried to swallow back the sudden tightness in her throat. She couldn't dwell on that now. She had to stop the bleeding. It didn't feel like a bad cut, but whenever she touched it, her hands came away wet. If only she had something to hand that could staunch it – a cloth, even a scrap of parchment, something – but she was crouched on a rock beside the road that ran parallel to her family's vegetable garden, and the only things around were the trowel she'd been using to tease out the weeds, and some cabbages.

Sissel was young, she was the first to admit that, but she understood the theory of cause and effect. Jouane had introduced the idea to her, during one of their unofficial magic lessons. She'd asked him why he thought it was wrong to use black soul gems, since the souls had already been caught, and he'd explained that when people used black soul gems, the dark wizards who ensnared the souls decided that it would be profitable for them to continue doing so. 'Supply and demand,' Jouane had said. 'Cause and effect.'

Some of that explanation had gone over her head, but she'd taken away the basics: one thing happening led to something else. For example, an overly rainy summer earlier that year had led to twice the normal amount of weeds springing up among the vegetables. This, in turn, led to an increased need to head out into the farm, to dig them up. This led to Britte becoming sick of the amount of work they had to do, which led to her shirking her duties, then lying to their father when he asked if the weeding had been done. And this led to him eventually realising that the crops hadn't been weeded at all, and turning to the nearest of his daughters and ordering them out to get it done. Sissel knew better than to argue, so she'd collected the tools and headed outside. There was no use in protesting that Britte had been the one originally charged with the task, and if she tried it, she'd be sure to get a beating from her sister later. And equally, there was no point in asking if she could do it in the morning, since she'd never get it finished before sundown, because she'd get a beating from her father there and then. Even as it was, he'd thought it necessary to hit her across the room towards the door.

Of course it rankled that Britte was left inside to the easy chore of washing the potatoes they'd dug up the day before. Not even a scolding directed her way for lying. But there was nothing to be done about it. One day, maybe, Sissel would be old enough and strong enough not to be scared of her sister, or her father, but it was hard to picture.

So she'd stayed up past sundown, ignoring the mud smears on her skirt and the ache in her shoulders. When it became too dark to see, she made use of the Candlelight spell that Jouane had taught her – there were so few people out on the streets now that it couldn't hurt to risk it, much as she wanted to keep her magic lessons a secret. The only people who might notice were the town guards, but there weren't many of them, and they never did much at night anyway. Certainly, she'd not seen the golden-orange flare of their torches in all the time she'd been outside. Most likely, they were in the inn, warming their hands and filling their stomachs with food and mead.

But she'd had to extinguish the spell when it became time to head back towards her house, so that her father didn't see. She'd thought that she knew the way well enough not to have to worry about making it there in the dark. She'd been wrong. She'd tripped on the steps, and been sent sprawling to the ground. That was how she'd ended up tearing the worn fabric of her skirt, and cutting open the gash in her knee.

There was another chain of cause and effect that had led up to it, of course, and it was far shorter. She'd been ordered out late because her father didn't like her. Her father didn't like her because he wasn't a kind man. And her father wasn't a kind man because his wife had died. Sissel's mother. And Britte's mother, too. Their mother, who had barely lived past seeing them into the world.

'It put a bitterness into your father's heart that can't ever be drawn out,' was how Jouane had described it to her. And she understood that. She thought she did, at least. She didn't have much chance to read books or listen to stories, but she knew a few tales that had lovers in them, and from what she'd heard, she knew it must be hard to lose someone you loved.

 _But what about me?_ Sissel thought, and suddenly she was fighting tears again.

'Hurt?'

There was no thud of boots on stone to alert her, no rustling of clothes or whisper of breath. One moment, there was silence, and the next, there was the voice. Very quiet, slightly husky, and absolutely out of nowhere.

Sissel lurched backwards with a quick cry, forgetting in the midst of the fear that gripped her that she was sitting on a flight of steps and that moving backwards was possibly not the best idea. In a second, she was sprawled on her back, half on and half-off the steps, a new burst of pain spreading through her shoulders.

The man who had appeared in front of her, ghosting out of the night as if it had given birth to him, looked down at her for a second. Then he bent down and held out his hand.

Sissel didn't take it. Her father had never really paid her enough attention to teach her about the dangers of talking to strangers, but Jouane had, and… well, it was common sense, really. When a man appeared out of thin air in the dark, she decided, the natural thing to do was to be worried. And more than a little scared. She scrambled to her feet, wondering if she could run fast enough to beat him to her house. Her father might not care for her, but she was fairly sure she'd stand up to a stranger who tried to hurt her.

'Won't hurt you,' the man said, as if he'd somehow overheard her thoughts. 'Sorry.'

He took a few steps backwards, but didn't walk on, and Sissel let her curiosity take charge of her for a moment. It was hard to get a close look at him, because everything he was wearing was black – no doubt, that was how he'd been able to approach out of the night without her seeing him. A black… _thing_ that Sissel didn't have a name for, longer than a jacket but too thin and short to be a coat, was tied loosely across his chest, its hood hanging half across his face. Though the gloom, and the extra shadow cast by the hood, it was hard, but just about possible, to make out a pair of dark eyes, brown skin, and some streaks of what looked like white warpaint. A Redguard, then, Sissel guessed. He was tall, but not as tall as most of the Nords she knew, and beneath the tail of the jacket-coat-thing she could make out the hilt of a sword. Her eyes followed the blade downwards; it was curved. Yes, definitely a Redguard. One of those warriors from Hammerfell that the guards never stopped talking about.

There was a lengthy silence, as he looked at her and she glanced between him and her home. The he dug a hand into a pocket of his jacket-coat and brought out what appeared to be a small glass bottle.

'Hurt?' he said again.

It took Sissel a moment to think through what he was saying. 'I – I tripped,' she said at last. 'I cut my knee.'

He nodded slowly, and held out the bottle. Sissel leaned back slightly, away from his hand.

'To help,' he said.

Sissel stared at it. 'What is it?'

'Blisterwort. Wheat. Blue mountain flower. Heal the cut. Deaden pain.'

He was an alchemist, then. That was enough to pique Sissel's interest. Alchemy wasn't considered to be a school of magic, but the potions it created could have magical properties, and Jouane had taught her the properties of a few basic herbs and reagents. Not that she was allowed to use them, of course.

She stretched out a hand towards the bottle, then hesitated. She didn't know this man. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to take anything from him.

He sighed, crouched down, and placed the bottle on the ground. As he straightened up, he took another step backwards. Cautiously, keeping her eyes on the stranger the whole time, she reached out and plucked up the bottle. The cork came free easily, and Sissel lifted the rim of the little flask to her nose. It certainly smelt like a healing potion. Jouane had made one for her father, once, when he'd been ill, and she remembered the scent; pungent, and somewhat fruity.

The Redguard gestured towards the bottle, and then towards her knee. Sissel glanced up at him, and underneath the rim of his hood, she could just make out that the look in his dark eyes was a tender one. It was the same kind of look that Jouane sometimes gave her, the look that had been on the face of the dragon in her dream, and she decided, at last, that while the stranger was someone she should be wary of, he probably wasn't about to hurt her.

She pulled her skirt up to just above the cut and held the bottle over the graze, carefully tipping it until a few drops fell onto the cut. There was a faint hissing sound, and a sharp, stinging sensation shot through the skin - only to fade into a delicious feeling of non-pain. That wasn't a word, but Sissel couldn't think of any other way to describe it. There had been pain, and now there wasn't, and it felt beautiful.

A soft golden glow arose from the place she'd let the drops fall as the ingredients did their work. In the dim light thrown up, Sissel watched, captivated, as the edges of the wound pressed themselves together, the blood fading from sight. In a moment, it was as if she had never fallen. Now all that remained to remind her of her fall was the rip in her skirt – but that could be mended later.

Biting back a grin, Sissel plugged the cork back into the bottle and passed it back to the Redguard. 'Thanks.'

His only response was a short nod. He took the bottle lightly from her and tucked back into whichever pocket it had come from. 'Your home?' he said, and from the way the sentence rose at the end, Sissel could tell it was a question – _where is your home? -_ even though he seemed to have cut out all words from his speech that weren't absolutely vital. Maybe he didn't speak the common tongue very well – or maybe he just didn't like speaking.

'It's over there,' she said, pointing.

She could just about make out his brow furrowing. 'Out late. Why?'

'I had to weed the vegetables.'

'Your family?'

Sissel tried, and failed, to work out what he meant. 'What about them?'

He let out a quiet huff, as if irritated that he was going to have to use more words. 'Why not them?'

'They were busy.' Sissel shrugged; she wasn't sure she wanted to share the difficulties she had with her father and Britte with a man she didn't know.

A silence fell, and Sissel wondered if she should say that she had to get home, but somehow it seemed rude to just walk away from the man who'd helped her. She clasped her hands together awkwardly, and scuffed the ground with her shoe.

The roar split the night, an echoing, screeching sound that made Sissel's skin prick and her eyes widen. The man's head snapped up towards the sky, and she thought perhaps she saw his lips move, heard him whisper something, but there was no way to be sure.

'Dragon,' he said. His tone was fierce, but not worried. It was the sort of tone she'd heard the town guards use to describe troublemakers who were irritating but harmless, people who angered them, but who were beneath their notice.

Suddenly, Sissel was glad to be in the presence of a man who carried a sword, and, she noticed now she looked again, a bow and quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. 'Is it close?'

His eyes scanned the sky, though Sissel had no idea why he expected to be able to see anything. 'No. Beyond the mountains.'

Sissel's breathing steadied slightly. 'It sounded closer than that.'

'Still night. Little wind. Sound carries.'

 _Except for the sound of you sneaking up on me,_ Sissel replied silently. Out loud, she said, 'Will it come over here?'

'Unlikely. Dragons know repercussions of attacking settlements.'

It was the longest sentence she'd heard from him so far, and unfortunately it was also the first one containing a word she didn't understand. 'Repercussions?'

'Consequences.'

'What are the consequences?'

'Death.'

Sissel stared at him. 'Who kills the dragons if they attack villages?'

He tilted his head slightly, looking down at her with his expression – what she could see of it – unreadable. 'Your thoughts?'

The answer came in a flash. 'The Dragonborn!'

'Yes. And others.'

'But what if that dragon isn't afraid of the Dragonborn? Would it attack Rorikstead?'

'Maybe.'

The roar ripped through the air again, but to Sissel's relief, it sounded further away this time.

'What do we do if a dragon attacks us?'

'Go underground. Basements. Dragons burn houses on the surface, smoke rises upwards. Risk being trapped by debris, but safest option.'

'Can we fight a dragon?'

He folded his arms. 'How many guards?'

'In Rorikstead?'

His only response was a nod.

'Four. I think.'

The Redguard shook his head. 'Too few.'

'How many people do you need to fight a dragon?'

'One.'

'But you just said –'

'One who knows how to kill dragons.'

Sissel glanced at his sword. 'Have you ever killed a dragon?'

Another nod.

'Really?'

Nod.

'How big was it?'

'They vary.'

'You've killed _more than one?'_

He raised and lowered his shoulders. 'Matter of knowing how.'

'Do you shoot them?'

'Sometimes. Prefer ambushes with blade. Eyes and tops of heads vulnerable.'

'Are you afraid of dragons?'

Another shake of the head. 'You?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

Wasn't it obvious? 'They're big, and they breathe fire, and they kill people.' Sissel sucked her lower lip. 'But I did have a dream that there was a good dragon. He was old and grey, but he wasn't scary.'

The Redguard stared at her for a moment, his lips slightly parted. Then he gave her another nod. 'Do you believe your dream?'

'I don't know.'

Another roar, this time even further away from them. The stranger glanced towards the sound, then back at her. 'You should be inside.'

'But you said it wouldn't come here.'

'Probably won't. Besides, warmer inside.'

That was certainly true. Sissel sucked in a breath. 'It was nice talking to you,' she said, as Jouane had told her she should when she said goodbye to someone. And then, because she was curious, she added, 'Why are you here in Rorikstead?'

'Passing through. Heading to Markarth.'

'Are you going to stay in the inn?'

He shook his head again. 'I'll keep moving.'

'At night?'

He nodded. 'Sometimes safer than day.'

Sissel wasn't sure she believed that, but she nodded. 'Good luck, mister.'

He inclined his head a little way. 'Thank you. Take care.'

Tugging his jacket-coat a little tighter around him, he turned towards the road. For a few seconds, as he started walking, his figure was just discernible, a moving, bulky patch of black against the deeper black. Then the night closed upon him like jaws, and he was gone.

Sissel stood for a few moments, looking after him. Then she rubbed her hands together to fend off the cold, shook herself, and headed off towards the door to her home.

It didn't surprise her, when she got inside, to see that apart from the lump under the blankets that was Britte, the house was empty. No doubt their father had slunk away to the inn. He often did that, and sometimes he didn't return until late at night, when Mralki finally threw him out. Sissel had been woken up many a time by the sound of Lemkil stumbling through the door and cursing and stamping his way to bed.

Sissel knew that she had to be much, much quieter, if she was going to avoid waking Britte. She made her way over to her bed on tiptoe, and moved slowly as she pulled off her shoes and pushed back her blanket. With any luck, Britte would stay asleep –

'Have fun out there?'

Careful not to turn in her sister's direction, Sissel clambered into bed. 'No.'

She'd long ago learned that it was easier to respond as simply as possible to Britte's jibes. Every word Sissel spoke was an arrow in her twin's quiver, something that Britte would collect and fire at her. The less she said, the less ammunition Britte had. Maybe there was something to that Redguard stranger's odd habit of saying as little as possible. Maybe he was trying to avoid getting hurt, too.

Though she doubted anyone would try to hurt a man who walked around with a curved sword and a bow and who could kill dragons. If she were grown up and had weapons to kill dragons with, maybe Britte and her father would leave her alone.

'You know why Pa made you do it?'

Sissel slumped down onto her bed, keeping her mouth clamped firmly shut.

'It's because he knows you're not brave enough to stand up to him.'

 _You don't stand up to him either,_ Sissel wanted to say, but she was too tired to want to risk starting an argument. That would keep them both awake, and all she wanted to do now was just _stop._ To be asleep and away from everything. Besides, if they were both still awake and arguing when Lemkil returned… there'd probably be another beating, if he was sober enough to land a blow.

'You're lucky he's still at the inn.' There was a trace of annoyance in Britte's voice, as there always was when Sissel failed to rise to her. 'Or he'd have hit you for taking so long.'

'It didn't take me that long,' Sissel muttered.

'I'd have got it done quicker.'

Britte must be as tired as Sissel – she could usually come up with more imaginative insults. 'I was talking to a man who walked without making any noise and had a curved sword. We talked about dragons.'

She only said it to see if she could manage to take her sister aback, and indeed, there was a slight pause before Britte's reply. 'You're an idiot.'

Sissel closed her eyes, and decided against replying.

Sometimes – no, a lot of the time – she wondered what it would be like if Britte were on her side. Then they would both share their unhappiness and their tears and play together in the happier times. They'd be a… what was that saying Jouane had used? A united front, that was it. Their father would be their enemy and they'd be allies against him.

Instead, Britte tried to make up for the fact that her father made her feel bad by making Sissel feel bad too. So Sissel had only enemies in her home, and no friends except Jouane. Though there was Erik from the inn, who helped on the farm sometimes, and who was always friendly. And there was that one town guard, the one with the big dent in his shield, who was always arguing with her father and who had once threatened to fine him for assault when he'd hit Sissel in the street. They weren't really friends, though, just nice people.

She wished she knew more nice people. The man with the curved sword had seemed like a nice person, even though he'd been a bit frightening at first, appearing out of nowhere like that.

She hoped he got to Markarth safely.

She wondered if she'd dream about the dragon again tonight.

She fell asleep.

* * *

There wasn't anything worrying, exactly, about waking to find that their father still wasn't home. It happened sometimes – he fell asleep in the inn and Mralki wasn't in the mood to deal with the trouble of throwing him out, and he would appear later in the day in an even fouler mood than usual. Sissel knew better than to go to the inn to look for him, and she and Britte both knew better, too, than to take more than a minute amount of food for breakfast, or he'd come back and accuse them both of taking more than they deserved behind his back, even if they'd had the usual amount.

The other rule of thumb for a morning where Lemkil wasn't home was to be working by the time he got back. Britte didn't always, and she paid for it, but Sissel never took the risk. She'd head back out to the vegetable garden, she decided. See if there were any weeds she'd missed. Pick the snails off the leeks and crush them under rocks to make sure they couldn't come back. Pull any large stones out of the soil to make digging easier.

She found herself walking through clouds of her own breath as she made her way outside, and the path was shining in its new coat of frost, as if it were made from moonstone. She smiled at the way her feet left dark gaps in the silver ice layer, puffed out a few clouds of breath and spent a few moments pretending she was a dragon, and then headed for the earth she'd spent so long digging through last night. They'd have to be careful; the frost might kill the crops, and then they'd be in trouble.

From out in the garden, a scarf wrapped around her head to keep her ears warm, Sissel watched Rorikstead wake up, just as she'd seen it fall asleep the previous night. The guards began their patrols. Erik emerged from the inn with a bucket swinging from each hand, heading in the direction of the well. Jouane smiled and waved at her as he walked by towards Rorik's house.

A patch of deathbell had taken root among the potatoes. Sissel knelt down to dig it out. She wondered whether her father had decided to eat in the inn that morning, where it was warm and where there was mead on hand. He'd been late home before, but never this late. Maybe she should go inside and tell Britte to help her, or she might be in trouble when he got back –

A yell, sudden and sharp as the dragon's roar last night, sent a couple of crows flapping upwards from the room of Sissel's house, adding their harsh cries to the sudden explosion of noise. Sissel paused in her work, glancing up from the deathbell patch. She knew Erik's voice, she knew it had been him who shouted, but she'd never heard him sound so… so frightened before.

A moment later, she spotted him racing towards the entrance to the inn, his buckets apparently left behind him, wrenching the door open and vanishing inside. A minute, perhaps, passed; then he appeared again, this time with his father following. The two men headed in the direction of the well again, and for some time, neither reappeared. Then both returned together, parting when they reached the road, with Mralki returning to the inn, and Erik heading towards Rorik and Jouane's home.

Sissel watched, frowning. Something must be wrong, very wrong.

She bent down again and shoved her trowel into the frost-stiff soil. The deathbell's roots were deep – it would take her a while to tease them out. She kept at it, keeping one eye on the road so that she could see if Mralki and Erik returned. Rorikstead was so small that news travelled fast – she'd soon learn what had happened. Maybe she could ask Jouane later. Mralki appeared again from the inn, a couple of the town guards following.

Gods, these roots were stubborn. Sissel grasped the top of the plant, pulled it upwards as far as she could, and swung the side of her trowel at the roots, severing them through. She knew that it was always better to dig weeds up at the very root, but the ground was too hard, and her father wouldn't notice if she just covered them up with some soil. She rose to her feet, scanning the ground for a place to throw the uprooted plant, and noticed Jouane standing at the edge of the garden.

'Sissel,' he said.

She tossed the deathbell aside and hurried over to him. 'Hi, Jouane. What's wrong with Erik? Did he tell you? I saw him coming out from behind the inn, he seemed worried.'

Jouane pressed his hands together, his fingers clasping and unclasping. 'Sissel, where's your sister?'

'Inside.'

Bending down, Jouane placed his hands on her shoulders. 'Stay here. Wait for me. I think Rorik will want to talk to you both.'

'Why?'

He looked at her for a second with an expression she couldn't read, then said, 'We'll explain soon.'

That was no answer, Sissel thought crossly, as he made his way over to the door to her home and pushed it open. Dropping her trowel, she turned her gaze across the village, to where Erik had been when his cry had risen above the rooftops. Whatever was wrong, whatever Jouane had refused to talk about, was over there.

She glanced back at the house. No sign yet of Jouane returning. She set off at a run.

There was no way of telling what she was running to, only that it was important, and she wanted to see it. That was who she was – she always wanted to see things with her own eyes. And now she was going to see whatever it was, and she wouldn't stop running, because she wanted to understand.

So she didn't stop when she heard Jouane shout from behind her – 'Sissel, no! Wait! Come back! – or when Erik, as she passed him, tried to flash out a hand to stop her, and, when he missed, yelled after her – 'No, don't look!' He tried to run after her, to catch her, and she knew he would catch up, because he was older and taller. But by the time he managed to grab her, to firmly but not roughly clasp hold of her arms and pull her back, it was too late, because she'd rounded the corner of the inn and seen what he'd seen, the thing that had made him cry out.

She didn't get a good look before Erik was turning her around, turning her away, whispering, 'Don't look, Sissel, you mustn't look.' And she did as he said, because the brief glimpse was enough. It was enough to see the figure lying sprawled out on the grass.

He was on his side, as if he were asleep, a fine layer of frost clinging to his clothes. Sissel knew that she'd have seen ice crystals in his moustache if he'd been facing her, but his back had been to her, so she hadn't seen them. She had, however seen the mark on the back of his neck. The red mark as long as her thumb, a dark red, a shade of red that could only be called blood-red, because that was what it was. Red with blood. There had been a red smear down the side of his neck from where the blood had trickled down after he'd fallen on the grass.

Some of the blood droplets had solidified in the frost. They looked like what she imagined rubies would look like, but they weren't rubies, they were iced blood and they were melting in the morning light.

They were her father's blood.

That one quick glance was enough for her to know that it had not been an accident, because accidents didn't work like that. Accidents didn't leave clear, open wounds in the backs of people's necks. That one glance was enough for Sissel to know that someone had murdered her father, and it terrified her that she didn't feel the least bit like crying.

She felt relieved, and she knew she shouldn't.

Erik walked her back towards the path with his arm around her shoulders. She let him lead her. Jouane was hurrying towards them, Britte trailing behind her with bewilderment on her face, and Sissel breathed in deeply and tried to prepare herself for reaching them. Because once she had to talk to them, once it was said out loud that Lemkil was dead, it would become real. Her father's death would be a fact, she and Britte would be orphans, and nothing, nothing, would be the same again.

Somewhere beyond the mountains, the dragon roared.

* * *

 **And the first chapter has stayed within 6000 words, which is a good sign! Let's see if I can keep that up for the rest of the story. Unlikely, but I'll try. It's been interesting trying to write from the perspective of someone as young as Sissel, but it's been fun so far. And soon things will get a bit more exciting than vegetable farming, I promise.**

 **I didn't know all these details about Rorikstead's residents until I looked them up, so for those wondering, Jouane is an elder inhabitant of the village who seems to be teaching Sissel some magic in secret. And yes, Sissel does talk about having a dream about an old, grey dragon. It's part of the reason I think she's something special - and why this one of my Dragonborns did, too. Who is he? Why does he speak so little? Well, anyone who wants to find out more about him right now could read my story 'Vulkun,' or alternatively just wait a chapter or two when I will reveal a little more about him.**

 **I'll try to get the next chapter up in a week or so. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Shared Blood

**This chapter didn't flow as well as I would have liked, hence the delay... Sorry to keep you waiting, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

CHAPTER TWO – SHARED BLOOD

Jouane set down his tankard firmly, sending vibrations running through the tabletop. 'It seems clear enough to me what happened.'

'We can't make any assumptions until we know more.' Rorik regarded the Breton with a weary gaze. 'Guesswork starts rumours.'

'By the Eight, Rorik, the rumours are flying already. It's a small village, and this is the most interesting thing that's happened here in two decades. People will talk whatever we do.'

'Rumours are going to hurt people.'

'You mean the girls. And they've already been hurt by this, Rorik. There's no use in trying to moonsugar-coat the truth with .'

Sissel swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She'd been inside Rorik's house so many times, since it was where Jouane lived, the place where she went to learn magic from him. But it had always seemed a welcoming place then, a kindly place. A place where she felt at home. Now it was as if there was a rabid wolf in there with them, hiding in a corner. Something everyone was aware of, but afraid to talk about.

She was sitting by the fireplace, her knees drawn up against her chest, watching the flames dance in the grate. Britte sat a little way off,apparently too stunned to think about trying to pick on her sister, but still not putting a finger across the large gap between them. Rorik had heated up some milk and given them each a mug, but Sissel's had served as a distraction for only a few minutes before she'd emptied it. Now she had nothing to focus on but the conversation between the adults, sitting at the table nearby, their voices low but loud enough to be heard.

'The fact is that he was murdered. And someone has to be responsible for it. The killer could be anyone in Rorikstead.'

'Now hold on, Jouane. Let's not go accusing our friends yet. I know Lemkil didn't exactly make himself popular, but I don't think anyone here in Rorikstead would straight-up murder the man. Especially not when it meant orphaning two girls.'

'What's the alternative? A stranger just happened to be passing through the town, ran into Lemkil and decided on the spur of the moment to off him?'

'Well, say Lemkil started a fight – '

'Surely then there'd be other marks. Bruises, cuts... Rorik, he was stabbed in the neck from behind. That's the sign of a murder, you can't deny that.'

Sissel hugged her knees in a little tighter. Did it really matter who had killed her father? He was dead. All that really seemed important was what was going to happen to her and Britte now. Jouane and Rorik weren't discussing that. Maybe they just didn't know.

She knew she didn't.

'Are you accusing anyone in particular, Jouane?'

'Gods, of course not. I think we can rule out young Erik, since half the village heard him yelp with shock when he found the body, and I doubt that could have been faked. Perhaps we could try searching people for a weapon of the kind that might have been used –'

Rorik slammed a hand down on the table. 'Jouane, do you realise what you're doing? You're trying to work out which member of our community is most likely to be a murderer.'

'Of course I do. But it just seems more reasonable to suspect someone from Rorikstead than to suggest that a stranger would do it. Lemkil hadn't been outside the village in years. Why would anyone from outside want to kill him?'

With a heavy sigh, Rorik shook his head. 'I know you're right about that, Jouane. But I can't see anyone from Rorikstead having the skill to kill him like that. No sound that alerted anyone – nothing. That looked like a clean kill.' He gathered up his mead tankard in both hands. 'I don't think he'd have been in pain for long.'

'Small mercy. However he died, he's dead.'

'It makes it easier to think about.' Rorik took a sip of his mead, and replaced the tankard on the table. 'Half the people in this village have never killed anything larger than the pests on their crops. You and I are the only trained fighters, apart from the guards.'

The door to the house thumped open. Sissel turned to see one of the guard standing silhouetted in the doorway, stamping mud and frost from his shoes. 'Rorik, we found something.'

Pushing the door to, he crossed the room to stand beside the table, and held out his hand. Sissel stood up, so as to get a clear look at the object nestled in his palm. It looked like a twig – a thin stick of wood with dark green needles spreading out from it.

'Looks like it comes from a yew tree.' Rorik frowned, passing it over to his companion. 'Jouane?'

'Definitely yew.' Jouane squinted up at the guard. 'Where did you find this?'

'When we moved Lemkil's body, we found it in his hand.'

'You mean he was holding it when he died?'

'No. The killer put it there.' The guard coughed. 'Rorikstead's remote, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard, but it's been spread around among the guards. In the last few years, a fair few bodies have been found with a piece of yew in their hands. It's a calling card. They think it's from the Dark Brotherhood, or at least from one of their members, but… there's no way to be sure.'

'The Dark Brotherhood? Gods have mercy.' Rorik pressed a hand to his forehead. 'That could be the answer, Jouane. If someone from the village contacted that bunch of murderers…'

Jouane's jaw was clenched. 'Somehow, that's worse.'

'One thing's for sure, there are no yew trees in these parts.' The guard shrugged. 'If the Brotherhood have struck here, Jarl Balgruuf should be informed.'

Jouane made a helpless gesture. 'Well, never mind that now. The exact cause and method of Lemkil's death can be worked out later. For now, we've a more pressing concern.'

'The kids. Of course.' The guard turned to face them, tugging off his helmet and tucking it under one arm. 'Their mother's dead, right?'

Sissel nodded, glad that someone was finally paying attention to them. Jouane and Rorik had been very kind, but they'd barely directed a single word in the direction of herself or Britte in the last twenty minutes.

'What becomes of them, then?' Rorik asked. 'Someone's got to look after them.'

Sissel's heart gave a tiny jump. If her father was gone, and she didn't have to work on his farm any more, then maybe she could stay here and live in Rorik and Jouane's house. She could learn about magic whenever she wanted and she'd never have to dig up another patch of weeds again.

'We could do it, couldn't we, Rorik?' Jouane asked, and Sissel's spirits lifted higher. 'The girls could stay with us. I'd be happy to look after them.'

 _Please say yes,_ Sissel begged Rorik silently. _Everything will be so much better…_

But Rorik was shaking his head. 'Jouane, you know we can't. We may be better off than most here in Rorikstead, but… with Lemkil gone, we'll be taking in less money from the tenants, and we wouldn't have enough. You know that. We can't properly provide for two children on top of ourselves.'

'Someone else may take over Lemkil's farm – '

'We're a remote village. It'll be months before someone moves in, and even with the additional coin, we couldn't do it,' Rorik said flatly. 'We can't take them, Jouane.'

'Wouldn't want to stay here anyway.' The sullen mutter was the first thing Britte had said since she'd been told what happened. Sissel suspected that she was just in shock. She knew she was in shock. She hadn't loved her father, neither of them had, but he had always been there. A part of their lives. He'd been cruel to them, but he'd fed them and clothed them. Their existence had been in that farmhouse, the three of them. Now that was over, and everything was going to be different.

As for Britte's declaration, Sissel decided that her twin was jealous. No one, really, was all that fond of Britte – at least, that was what Sissel thought, after watching the people around town. But Jouane liked Sissel, and she knew – probably Britte knew it too – that it was for hersake that he wanted to take care of them.

She realised, suddenly, that she was feeling sorry for Britte. That wasn't something she was used to.

'Actually, unless you're planning to officially adopt them, you wouldn't be able to take them in anyway,' the guard said apologetically, glancing at Jouane. 'Law of the Hold is that orphans with no other family to look after go to the Riften Honourhall.'

Jouane's brow creased. 'The orphanage?'

'That's even worse.' Britte said the words under her breath, but the adults still sent uneasy looks at her, so Sissel guessed they had heard.

The guard folded his arms. 'Do they have any other relatives?'

Jouane shook his head.

'Then they go to the Honourhall. That's the way things are.'

'I don't know.' Rorik clasped his hands together. 'I've heard bad things about that place.'

'It's better now, from what I've heard. There's a new woman in charge who looks after the kids well. She's even spread it around that they're up for adoption, if anyone wants them.' The guard shrugged. 'I think they'll be OK there.'

Sissel was beginning to have that feeling of being invisible she was all too familiar with, the feeling that always came on when adults talked about you without talking to you.

'And how are they going to get there?' Jouane demanded.

'I'll send a message to Whiterun and ask for a carriage. One of the guards can go with them to make sure they're safe on the journey.'

Rorik nodded. 'That seems like the most sensible course of action.'

Jouane pushed back his chair and – _finally –_ turned to face Sissel and Britte. 'Well, I don't like it much, but it seems to be the only thing we can do. Will you go?'

There was a short silence. Sissel looked at Britte. Britte looked at her shoes, and tugged at a splinter of wood sticking out from the floor.

Since Britte didn't seem to be saying anything, Sissel nodded, then, realising Britte wouldn't realise she had agreed, said, 'Yes.'

Britte tugged the splinter out and threw it to one side. 'Whatever you want.'

'Well, that's decided, then.' The guard pulled his helmet back on. 'I'll make the arrangements. They should probably stay in the inn until the carriage gets here. Might take a day or so. And they'll need to be given supplies that'll last them 'til Riften, and to have any possessions they're taking with them packed up.'

Jouane grasped the table to steady himself as he rose to his feet. 'Let's see to that now, then. Come on, girls.'

Britte clambered up and marched towards the door. Sissel waited for Jouane to reach her, then followed at his side. Out on the street, the frost had still not melted, and Jouane pulled his coat tightly around himself. 'Too cold for someone of my age,' he murmured. 'Too cold for someone of your age, too.'

Sissel glanced in the direction of the inn, the place where she'd seen her father lying breathless, lifeless in the ice-coated grass. 'Jouane, what will they do with our father?'

'Bury him, if we can find ground soft enough. Burn him if we can't.' Jouane sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sissel. I know he wasn't the best father, but he was all you and Britte had, and I hate packing you off to some orphanage. Especially in a city like Riften.'

'Is Riften a bad place?'

'Thieves below the surface and corrupt leadership above, from what I've heard. But the orphanage staff will keep you away from all that, I'm sure. If they don't, then send a message to me, and I'll see if I can do. In fact, if it turns out that Rorik and I can look after you, then I might go there and collect you.'

Sissel felt a smile turn the corners of her mouth upwards. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. 'I'd like that. Thanks, Jouane.'

The Breton let out another long sigh. 'I'm going to miss our magic lessons, Sissel. Keep doing your magic, if they let you at the Honourhall. Wouldn't do for you to get out of practice.'

For the first time, Sissel found herself wishing, really wishing, that her father hadn't been killed. It was taking her away from Jouane and from their lessons and from the one thing she'd really enjoyed and been good at. And then she realised that there must be something wrong. Why was that the only reason she regretted her father's death? Surely she should be sad for other reasons?

'Jouane,' she said quietly.

'Mmm-hmm?'

'I don't miss him.' Sissel swallowed and looked up at him. 'Is that bad?'

'Your father, you mean?'

'Yes. I'm not sad that he died. I'm…' She decided not to say _relieved._ It just felt wrong to say it. Weren't you supposed to love your parents?

Jouane gave a tiny shake of his head. 'Doesn't surprise me, Sissel. Lemkil never gave you any reason for missing him.'

'But he was my dad, and he's dead.'

'If he wanted you to miss him, he should have acted like your father,' Jouane said sharply. 'Being a parent is about far more than just shared blood. It's about protection, and care, and love. Lemkil never showed you any of those things. There's no reason why he should have anything from you in return, least of all grief.'

Sissel considered this sentence, decided she didn't understand it, and mentally filed it away with the several thousand other comments of adult origin she was determined to make sense of someday. 'I think Britte's upset.'

'More shocked than upset, I think.' Jouane lowered his voice so as to prevent Britte from hearing. 'She'll pull through. Everything's changing for you now, and it's not easy.'

Sissel nodded, and looked at her sister's back, moving in front of her in the direction of their home. Britte's head was bowed, and she was very intently not looking in Sissel's direction. Now that they were alone, each other's only family, something inside Sissel had hoped that her sister might let the undeclared war between them die down a little. Maybe they'd even find some comfort in each other. They were sisters. Now that their father wasn't around to hurt them, maybe they could be friends.

Instead, Britte seemed farther away from her than ever.

Biting her lip, she followed her twin inside the house.

* * *

The carriage arrived to take them to Riften in the early morning of the second day after Lemkil's death. One of the town guards – the one who always used that shield with a dent in it – lifted them up onto the carriage, and passed up their bags after them. Neither of them was taking much with them other than the bare essentials: clothes and food. Sissel had a couple of books, given to her by Jouane. She'd never been able to keep them in their house, since the first time Lemkil had found one of them he'd thrown it in the fire. Reading, he'd said, was a waste of time when there was farmwork to be done.

She could read as much as she wanted to now, and no one would want to stop her or be able to stop her.

She cradled her bag close to her chest as the guard climbed up after them – Whiterun Hold law, apparently, was that orphans were escorted, for safety's sake. And Sissel was glad of it, because she had no idea what the world outside Rorikstead was really like, except that it contained dragons, bears, mammoths, giants, and all kinds of other creatures that would probably consider her an appetiser.

'It'll take us about a full day to get to Riften,' the carriage driver reported, as he urged the horse into motion. 'Make yourselves comfortable, and keep an eye out for wolves.'

'Wolves?' Sissel repeated, unable to keep her voice from shaking a little, and the guard chuckled and gave her shoulder a pat.

'Don't you worry. I've got a bow with me.'

So Sissel spread one of her spare shirts over her seat to make it a little more comfortable and pressed herself up against the wall of the carriage, watching as Rorikstead fell behind her and the world she'd never known opened up ahead. She realised, as the village where she'd been born and raised vanished behind the horizon, that she had no idea what to expect. None at all.

The first few minutes of the journey showed her nothing she wasn't familiar with: golden tundra grass, grey boulders, and open, cloud-strewn sky. At one point she thought she saw a vast figure standing in the distance, and leaped to her feet to get a better look, eagerly asking the guard if it was a giant, but Britte snapped at her to shut up, and when Sissel looked again, the figure was gone. As if to make up for the disappointment, the guard pulled a map from his own backpack and spread it across his knees. 'Here. I'll show you our route. We'll be heading along the border with the Reach, down into Falkreath, head through the routes to the south, and enter the Rift just south of Ivarstead. You see?'

Sissel did see, and she smiled as she realised that this meant they'd finally see something other than the open plains of Whiterun. And it wasn't long before the carriage was moving through thick, green forests, the horse's hooves ringing out more quietly on a path coated with pine needles. Sissel had never seen or heard so much life in one place – the chattering of birds, the barks of foxes, the white flares of rabbits' tails. The shadows beneath the trees were thick and dark, and it made her think of the Redguard man she'd seen the night her father had died, of how he'd been able to appear out of the dark and melt back into it. He'd probably like a place like this. She wondered if he'd reached Markarth safely. She hoped he had.

They had a few hours' stopover in Falkreath, so that the guard could buy some food for them in the inn, and the carriage driver could pick the stones out of his horse's hooves, and Sissel and Britte could stretch their legs. It was a quiet place, but that was the only thing that it had in common with Rorikstead. When Sissel thought of the village where she'd been born, she thought of unbroken sunlight, chilled breezes sweeping in from over the tundra, and open horizons. Falkreath was a town of shade, a town where it was hard to see the sun through the pine branches. Looking around, it was easy to imagine that there was nothing in the world but trees, that the evergreens just went on forever. Even the wind here made a different sound. It was different, but it wasn't strange, or wrong, or frightening. It just wasn't home.

Riften would be different again. Sissel sat down on a tree stump and watched the people passing. A woman smiled at her as she passed, and Sissel returned the smile with a kind of breathless awe – not because it was so odd to be smiled at by a stranger, she knew that strangers could be very friendly, but because the woman's skin was a creamy yellowish shade, her eyes slanted, and her ears tapered to points. She'd seen elves from a distance, passing through the village, but never up close like this.

Just another reminder that with her father's death, the world was getting bigger.

The carriage driver called out that it was time to press on, and so the journey continued. Britte fell asleep somewhere around the time that the driver announced that they'd be taking a detour so they could avoid Helgen. 'It's turned into a pit of bandits since the dragon burned it.'

'Couldn't the Jarl send guards to stop them?'

'The bandits? Well, it's not so simple as that. With the war on, and dragons around, it's hard to spare the guards. No one wants to find their settlement short of protections when one of the scaly brutes drops from the sky.'

Sissel thought of the Redguard she'd met, the one with the curved sword and the black jacket-coat-thing. 'I met a man who could kill dragons. He was travelling through Rorikstead.'

'In times like this, people are learning how it's done.' The guard shrugged. 'But not your average citizen.'

That Redguard, Sissel thought, had not been your average citizen.

The path grew higher, and colder. Sissel delved into her bag for her warm woollen sweater. Britte, woken by the cold, stubbornly held out until it started snowing before doing the same. The guard started telling stories of the stupid things his commanders and comrades had done while on duty to take their minds off their numb fingers. Sissel laughed; Britte shrank deeper into her seat, glowering.

The sun was behind the mountains now, so Sissel put her head down on her bag and closed her eyes. With the cold, she'd thought that it would take her hours to sleep. But drinking in a new world must have been more tiring than she'd realised, because she was asleep in minutes.

When she awoke, she found that the landscape had hanged again, the pines and rocks giving way to gentler slopes and thin, almost delicate trees with white bark and golden leaves, as if autumn had come one year and the Rift's forests had decided they liked orange better than green, and never changed their leaves since. Rorikstead had been a place of blue sky and yellow grass, Falkreath one of dark emerald pine needles and brown bark. The Rift was full of shades of amber – not just the leaves, but the grass, the sun, the light on the water. Sissel pulled off her sweater; she was warmer here than she could ever remember being in Rorikstead.

A hawk swept through the sky, and Sissel followed its looping flight with her eyes. 'I like it here,' she remarked.

'I don't,' Britte grunted, but Sissel was fairly certain she did. Britte seemed to have made it a personal rule that she had to disagree with everything Sissel said, and hate everything Sissel liked.

'And there it is.' The guard extended his finger towards the horizon, and the grey smudge that was starting to appear on it. 'Riften.'

Sissel felt oddly disappointed. Yes, her limbs were stiff and she couldn't wait to get off the carriage, but she'd enjoyed the journey. And once they were standing in front of Riften's gates, the interval would be over. They'd be in the new act in their lives that they'd been forced into when Lemkil's murderer had plunged a dagger into his neck. It would start, and Sissel was afraid of it.

So when the carriage finally drew to a halt outside the stables, and a stablehand – a Redguard, Sissel noticed, they seemed to be everywhere suddenly – came to help the driver with the horse, it was with some trepidation that she slung her back over her shoulders and jumped down. She glanced at Britte, and for a second she thought she saw equal fear in her twin's eyes. The Britte looked away, and the moment of connection was gone.

The guard who'd escorted them had a brief conversation with one of the town guards at the gate. This was going to be another thing to get used to: seeing guards with purple sashes, their shields bearing a crossed dagger symbol rather than the familiar horse head.

Their guard beckoned them forward. 'This is where I leave you. One of the Riften guards will take you to the Honourhall.' He bent down and pulled off his helmet to smile at them both. 'Best of luck, kids.'

'Thanks,' Sissel said quietly, and Britte muttered something that might have been an echo.

It was very lonely, watching him head back towards the carriage. Once he was gone, so was their last link with Rorikstead. But the Riften guard shrugged and waved his shield towards the gate. 'Well, let's go,' he said, and so Sissel was heading through the gates of the strange town before she'd had any chance to prepare herself for it.

It hadn't occurred to her until that moment that she'd never been inside a city before. So she wasn't ready for the sheer number of people who thronged the streets, or for how loud the clamour of voices was, or for how tall the walls were, encircling everything in every direction, shutting Riften into its own private world. This place was not like the Rift outside the walls; there was no gentle, sleepy amber light here. Everything was packed with colour and movement, and Sissel swallowed hard, wondering if too much time here would overload her senses.

'This way. And stick close.' The guard set off, barely looking back to see if they were following. 'It'd be easy to get lost in this crowd.'

 _That,_ Sissel thought, _is true._

She kept one eye trained on the guard as they wove through the streets, not wanting to lose sight of him, but she couldn't stop her gaze from wandering a little, drinking in the sights around her. There was another Bosmer, like the woman she'd seen in Falkreath. That woman selling fish and meat next to the inn – she had to be a Dunmer. And that man – at least, she thought he was a man – behind the jewellery stall could only be an Argonian. She tried not to stare.

'Right. We're here.' The guard signalled for them to stop, and Sissel tore her eyes away from the people surrounding her to examine the building they were now standing in front of. It looked the same as most of the other houses here – short and squat, built from wood, not stone like the houses in Rorikstead. Sissel might not have marked it out as special at all, if it weren't for the metal sign over the door. _Honourhall Orphanage._

The guard lifted his hand and gave the door a few hard thumps. There was a short pause; then the door swung open, revealing a young woman, dark-haired, clad in a yellow-brown dress. Her gaze fell first on the guard's helmeted face, then slowly lowered to Sissel and Britte, hovering behind him, and a smile spread across her features.

'Two more for you,' the guard grunted.

'Thank you for bringing them here.' The woman stood back, leaving the doorway open. 'Come on in.'

Relieved at the prospect of being out of the bustle of the city, Sissel obeyed. The moment Britte was across the threshold, the guard wheeled around and marched away into the chaos of the streets, and the dark-haired woman pulled the door shut.

'Well, welcome to the Honourhall. I'm Constance.' The woman bent down so that their heads were on a level. 'And you are?'

'I'm Britte. That's Sissel.'

Sissel dropped her bag onto the floor and pulled it open, hunting through it for the note Jouane had given her. Finding it, she pulled it free and held it out. 'Jouane from our village told us to give you this. He said it would say why we're here.'

Constance took it from her gently and smoothed it out. Sissel noticed Britte giving her a venomous look – clearly, she wasn't happy about the fact that Sissel had been entrusted with it, rather than herself – but Sissel did her best to block her out and focus on Constance. She _seemed_ nice, but Sissel wasn't used to meeting new people. Maybe it was hard to tell what someone was like.

At last, Constance folded up the letter, nodding. 'I'm so sorry about your father.'

'We're not,' Britte said bluntly, and Sissel's eyes widened. Partly because while she agreed, she didn't think she'd ever be able to say it out loud. And partly because, for what might have been the first time in their lives, Britte had referred to the two of them as _we._

'I – I see.' The shock on Constance's face quickly melted into sympathy. 'Well, you're in safe hands now. I promise. Come with me, and I'll find you somewhere to sleep, and introduce you to the other children.'

 _Safe hands,_ Sissel thought, as she followed. Hands that wouldn't lash out at them in anger. Hands that wouldn't leave bruises on their skin or be held in front of their faces, balled into fists.

She had no idea what lay ahead of her. But it had to be better than what she was leaving behind.

* * *

The days began to blend into each other, so that when Sissel looked back on it afterwards, all she could remember of her time in the Honourhall was a blur. She sometimes felt that she should have more to say about it, but really, her time there was defined by what it was not. It was not unhappy, it was not full of fear and cold weather and farm work. It was not home, but it was not dangerous.

Constance was true to her word; they were safe there. The only things Sissel missed about Rorikstead were Jouane and her magic lessons. Riften was warmer. Constance put more effort into caring for them in one day than Lemkil had in ten years. The other children were nice enough, especially Runa, who greeted their arrival with a smile that was too big for her face and a gleeful exclamation of, 'I'm not the only girl anymore!' Britte was still barely speaking to Sissel, preferring to join in with whatever the boys were doing, which was fine by Sissel; it meant she could spend time with a girl of her own age apart from her sister for the first time in her life.

'You're lucky you only came here now,' Runa told her one day, as they watched snow circling down outside the window. 'A year or two ago, Grelod the Kind was in charge here, but then someone killed her, so Constance took over.'

'Someone _killed_ her?'

'Yeah. She wasn't kind at all. She was the meanest person ever.' Runa's voice grew quieter, and she shook her head as if trying to shake bad memories out of it. 'But when Aventus ran away, he said he'd get someone from the Dark Brotherhood to kill her.'

'The Dark Brotherhood?' Sissel repeated. 'In my village, they thought that someone from the Dark Brotherhood killed my father. Who are they?'

'Assassins. If you need someone killed, you can ask them, and they do it for you.' Runa tilted her head slightly. 'Your father beat you up, and Grelod beat us up, and the Dark Brotherhood killed both of them. You kill one person, and you solve so many problems.' She grinned. 'I wonder at the possibilities…'

Sissel laughed with her, but she was only half concentrating on her friend's words. 'Did you see the assassin?'

'No,' Runa said ruefully. 'Grelod was telling us about how we shouldn't ask to be adopted anymore, and then an arrow just came right out of nowhere and hit her in the neck. Bam.' She slammed a fist into her palm. 'And she was dead right away. We never saw the person who killed her. Constance was frightened, but...' She shrugged. 'We were happy.'

'In Rorikstead, the my friend Jouane talked about the Dark Brotherhood like they were evil.'

'Well, they're not,' Runa said forcefully. 'If Aventus hadn't got them to kill Grelod, she'd still be here. Constance really _is_ kind, and she lets us be adopted.'

That was something to consider. Jouane was the cleverest person Sissel knew, but maybe he'd been wrong about the Dark Brotherhood. Runa would probably think so. The idea of Jouane being wrong was so peculiar that she decided to move the conversation away from anything related to it. 'Has anyone here ever been adopted?'

'No. I hope it happens someday, though.'

And Sissel nodded, wondering if it would ever happen. Specifically, to her.

She liked the idea. Constance was wonderful, but she loved everyone. She knew it was selfish, but she wished there were someone who loved _her,_ who treasured her and saw her as special to them. It made her think about the mother she'd never known, the mother who must have been so excited when she learned she was with child, who would have taken proper care of them if she hadn't died.

Maybe then, she'd have loved her father. Maybe then, Britte would be her friend.

That said, as the months went on, she couldn't help but notice a change in Britte. She was still paying almost no attention to Sissel, but she was getting on well with the boys. She'd stopped trying to beat Sissel up – Constance had been so angry and disappointed when she caught Britte doing it that it never happened again. Even someone like Britte couldn't help but love Constance. And, just maybe, when Constance sent her to bed early for it, Britte learned for the first time that it wasn't what was done, that she couldn't get away with it, that the fact that Lemkil had done and not been punished it didn't make it right.

That, though, was the only thing that changed in her life for six months. Until the day her life swung around, hurrying off in a new direction.

It started with a knock on the orphanage door. Sissel was helping Constance lay the table for dinner when the sound of a fist thumping on wood echoed through the room. It was probably a delivery, Sissel told herself, and went on setting out the bowls, only half listening to what Constance said to whoever it was who was standing on the doorstep. 'Welcome to the Honourhall. Do you have supplies for us? No? I – well, I don't suppose you'd be here to adopt?'

'We're looking for a girl named Sissel.'

She didn't recognise the voice, a woman's, but there was no way she could have resisted the urge to drop the bowls onto the table and spin around, not when she heard her own name. So she saw the two visitors came in through the door. The woman, the one who'd spoken, was someone she'd never seen before; a Dunmer, with braids woven into her black hair and streaks of yellow-gold paint across her grey-skinned face. But the man who entered the Honourhall in front of her… him, she knew immediately.

He was wearing the same black thing that was half a jacket and half a coat, with the same dark metal bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and the same curved sword at his waist. His hood was drawn up, but now that she was seeing him in the light, she saw more of the face beneath it. A nose that was hooked near its base, hooked like an eagle's beak.A few pale scar marks across his left cheek, bright lines against the brown skin. And the patterns of his white warpaint; a shape like a triangle with elongated points across his forehead, a stripe across his nose with a line and a row of dots beneath it, and another stripe, a vertical one, stretching across his lower lip and down his chin.

His eyes – the darkest brown she'd ever seen – turned upon her, and a frown furrowed his brow. Sissel glanced at Constance, and took a step towards him.

'Hello, mister.' She swallowed, and, at a loss, thought back to the conversation they'd had before. 'Have you been fighting any more dragons?'

The Dunmer woman let out a low, throaty chuckle. And something stirred at the corner of the Redguard's still face. Just a flicker, the tiniest ripple of muscles. Perhaps, if it had been coaxed a little more, it would have been a smile.

'Sissel?' he said.

'Yes. Um. That's my name.'

He nodded, very slowly, and spoke again, in that low, husky voice. A voice that sounded like a soft wind through the pines in Falkreath, or the crunch of frost underfoot. Any kind of sound that was born from the wilderness.

'I've been looking for you.'

* * *

 **It's so much fun writing descriptions of Skyrim's landscapes. I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit slow, but from here on in, I hope, the pace of the story will pick up...**

 **I can't think of anything more to say, so I'll just sign off with my customary phrase: thanks for reading!**


	3. Blood Ties

CHAPTER THREE – BLOOD TIES

There was a moment of silence. It would have been hard for there to have been anything else, since the Redguard didn't seem to like speaking all that much, Sissel was unsure of what to say, and both the Dunmer woman and Constance seemed to be waiting for someone else. But in the end, it fell to Constanceto smile brightly and ask, 'Do you two know each other?'

'We met,' the Redguard said simply.

'Once,' the Dunmer added, in the same kind of tone Jouane always used when he thought Sissel was being too confident about her magic. That warning tone, that _be careful about what you're getting into_ tone. The man cast a swift, unreadable glance at her, and she raised her eyebrows.

Sissel decided to explain to Constance before she could become any more confused than she clearly already was. 'He was travelling through Rorikstead. I cut my knee and he gave me a healing potion.'

'That was kind of you.' Constance clasped her hands together. 'So, well…'

Her voice trailed off, and Sissel didn't blame her. She was bewildered too. She could have understood a friend like Jouane travelling to Riften to see her, but a stranger she'd only spoken to once? No, that didn't make sense. She had a feeling the question she wanted to ask was a little rude, but she couldn't think of anything else to say, and she did want to know the answer. So she went ahead and asked it. 'Why did you come to see me?'

The Redguard turned his head to the side and didn't answer. Out of the corner of her eye, Sissel noticed the elf woman roll her eyes. 'On passing through Rorikstead recently,' she said, 'the news reached him that your father had been killed. He wanted to ensure that you were… being cared for.'

'We take good care of the children,' Constance said, an edge of indignation creeping into her voice.

The Redguard looked at Sissel, and tilted his head slightly. Quizzically. And somehow – she wasn't sure how – Sissel knew what he was asking. _Is that true?_

'Constance looks after us really well,' she assured him.

'Well, surely you didn't come all this way to ask that.' Constance was frowning.

'Already in Riften.' The Redguard gave a small shake of his head. 'No trouble.'

'We had business here already,' his companion explained. 'We thought we might as well take the time to visit. And now – ' She turned to face the Redguard – 'Your question's been answered, and we have business elsewhere.'

But Constance, Sissel had learned during her time at the Honourhall, was what Jouane would have called an opportunist. Sissel had seen her writing out countless letter for the guards to distribute, all with the words _Consider Adoption_ written in bold black ink at the top. And almost every visitor to the orphanage – even the Jarl's steward, when she'd come to inspect the place – had been asked the same thing. So Sissel wasn't surprised when the orphanage owner said quickly, 'Perhaps you'd like to stay for dinner. We've food to spare, and you can meet the children, and –'

'We didn't come here to meet the children,' the elf said firmly.

The Redguard sent another glance in her direction. 'Jenassa.'

'We didn't,' she insisted. 'You've seen the girl, and she's safe.'

'More than that.'

Sissel did not understand this statement at all, but the Dunmer – Jenassa – seemed to. 'I understand that isn't all there is to it, but – there's nothing more to be done.'

'Well, if you want to help, you could consider adoption,' Constance said, with the usual brightness with which she said the phrase.

'I think not.' Jenassa stepped forward and put her hand on her companion's arm, clearly intended to pull him away, but he stayed firmly still.

Sissel's heartbeat quickened.

Jenassa let out a sigh. 'Ozan,' she said, in that same warning tone.

 _Ozan._ So he had a name. Suddenly he didn't seem so strange. He was a person, like any other, and he'd come to the Honourhall to check that she was all right for no other reason than to be nice. He had helped her when she'd been hurt, giving her one of his own healing potions, and he'd talked to her and asked why she was out in the cold. And he could fight dragons.

Thinking of dragons made her remember that dream she'd had about the old, grey dragon, and the noble, gentle way it had looked at her. The Redguard man, Ozan, had looked at her the same way that night in Rorikstead, and he was looking at her like that now. And that was what did it. Hearing his name. He suddenly became a person, and that was what made her decide that she liked him, that she trusted him.

For the first time, she wondered who the Dunmer was. Ozan had called her Jenassa, but that didn't say anything about who she was. Like him, she carried a sword, though hers was straight-bladed. She seemed to speak for him when he didn't want to, so she must know him well enough to be able to understand what he was thinking. A close friend? A fellow adventurer? His wife, even?

The only thing Sissel could tell about her for certain was that she didn't seem thrilled by his hesitation. 'Ozan, that is not why we came.'

'Plans change,' he said, shrugging.

'And why should this one? It isn't a good idea.' She directed this statement not only to him, but to Sissel and Constance. 'I'm sorry, but you know that it isn't.'

'Maybe you should discuss this privately,' Constance said, still in that same bright voice. 'It's a big decision, after all.'

'There is no decision!' Jenassa said forcefully.

'My choice,' Ozan countered.

'Yours alone? I don't think I noticed myself vanishing.'

 _Probably his wife._

There was another short silence; then Ozan gestured towards the door. 'Privately?'

She gave a single, sharp nod. 'That would be better.'

Without another word, he marched over to the door and pushed it open. Jenassa followed him out, and the door swung shut.

'What very strange people,' Constance remarked.

Sissel agreed, but decided not to say so. Strange wasn't always a bad thing. You shouldn't talk to strangers, Jouane said, but Ozan had helped her and been kind to her and now he'd come to Riften to make sure that she was all right. He might be strange, but he was also kind. At least, he seemed to be, from what she'd seen of him so far.

'Might as well keep setting the table.' Constance headed back over to it and picked up the bowls that Sissel had let drop when she'd heard the Redguard say her name. 'I'm sure they won't be long. As long as they do come back.'

That last sentence was muttered under her breath, and Sissel decided that for Constance's sake, she'd pretend she hadn't heard it. So she busied herself with setting out the knives and forks and cups, not looking away from her work but keeping her ears alert for anything she might overhear of whatever conversation was going on outside.

Ozan and Jenassa seemed to be having their private discussion close to the orphanage walls, and so here and there, Sissel could discern the blur of sound that was their voices. And just occasionally, there were words – at least, she could hear some of what Jenassa was saying, but Ozan's voice seemed to be permanently fixed at a level just above a whisper, and it was impossible to heard through the walls.

'Of course I sympathise,' the Dunmer said at one point, and then, after a lengthy pause, 'You're not normally one to do things on impulse.' A pause, presumably while Ozan responded. 'All right, but you're not the one you need to consider here. She seems well-cared for. Can you do better?' Pause. 'Yes, that's a possibility.' Another, longer pause, followed by more words from Jenassa that Sissel couldn't catch. 'And when she does, what will you do?'

At last, the creak of the door announced their return. Sissel turned to watch them enter. Ozan's face was lined with thought; Jenassa was looking at him with what Sissel thought might be concern. Constance moved towards them, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

'We're considering,' Ozan said.

'Wonderful!' Constance breathed; Sissel didn't miss the slight squeak of delight that the final syllable of the word turned into. 'Perhaps you'd like to speak to Sissel and her sister – or to the others –'

'Sister?' Jenassa said sharply.

A cold feeling of disappointment settled in Sissel's gut; so far, Ozan had shown an interest in her, only her. Might he stop considering when he learned that if he wanted to take in Sissel, he would have to take in Britte alongside her?

And that surprised her, her disappointment. Because if she was disappointed, then she must be happy that he was considering it. Being adopted by someone she barely knew… shouldn't that be frightening? But she'd seen nothing but kindness, if quiet, withdrawn, kindness, from this man. More than she'd ever seen from her father.

Maybe that was what Jouane had meant, about family being more than shared blood.

'You never said there were two.' Jenassa turned to give Ozan an accusing glare.

He gave a tiny shake of his head. 'Didn't know.'

'Well, now you do. And what are you going to do about it?'

Sissel saw something that might have been pain flicker over his face. 'Siblings shouldn't be separated.'

'Wait.' Sissel blurted out the word without really thinking about what she was doing. 'Britte and I… we don't really get on all that well.'

Ozan frowned, and there was no questioning the expression he wore now – it was confusion. 'She wouldn't come?'

'I don't know. You'd have to ask her. But she doesn't really like me, and…'

'It doesn't seem right to split you up.' Constance clasped her hands together nervously. 'They're twins, you see, and I don't think they've ever been apart before. But it's true that Britte doesn't spend much time with Sissel – '

'Why are you talking about me?' asked a very familiar voice.

Sissel turned to see Britte standing leaning against the doorway, with Samuel, Hroar and Francois standing a little way behind her. Of course, they must have come to investigate why their evening meal was taking so long to arrive. And now Britte was looking at Sissel with more than a little suspicion.

'You boys should probably leave us for a while,' Constance said quickly, hurrying forwards to usher them off. 'Sissel and Britte have something important to discuss.'

'Like what?' Britte demanded.

'Like the people who are considering adopting your sister, who seems open to the idea,' Jenassa said bluntly, folding her arms. 'And said people didn't know that you came as part of the package.'

'Jenassa, that's rude,' Ozan said quietly.

The Dunmer glanced at him, at Britte, back at him, and then sighed. 'Yes. I'm sorry.'

'Why do you want to do that?' Britte demanded.

'Adopt your sister?' Jenassa let out a huff. 'That question requires a complicated answer.'

'She needs a home. We're willing to give it.' Ozan shrugged. 'Not complicated.'

'I wasn't talking to you.' Sissel could count on her fingers the number of times Britte had looked her in the eye, not merely shot scornful glances her way, but now she would have to add to their number. 'Sissel, why do you want to go with them?'

Sissel twisted her head around to look at them. Why _did_ she? In fact, did she at all? She was looked after here. Constance took good care of her, and Runa was her friend. It was safe, and it was nice enough. But… it wasn't hers. Lemkil had been a terrible father, but he'd been _her_ father. Their family life had been painful, but it had still been her family life. She was happy in the Honourhall, but Constance showed her as much affection as she did all the others. Was it selfish, to want something that was personal? Someone who cared about _her?_

And Ozan… maybe she barely knew him, but he'd been kind to her. Kinder than Lemkil or Britte ever had. She wasn't so sure about Jenassa, but the elf seemed more worried than hostile. What she was worried about, Sissel had no idea, but the fact that she was prickly didn't mean that she was a bad person.

'Why wouldn't I want to?' she demanded.

'Because you don't know these people.' Britte was staring at her as if she were mad. 'And it's safe here.'

'She'll be safe with us, too,' Jenassa countered, and Sissel looked at her in surprise. It was the first thing Jenassa had said to suggest that she wanted this as much as Ozan seemed to.

'But things are OK here,' Britte protested.

'Why do you care?' Sissel hadn't intended to get angry – she hadn't even noticed herself getting angry – but suddenly she was raising her voice. 'You've never cared about me! You've beaten me up and picked on me every chance you ever got! You were always just as bad as our father!'

Britte kicked at the wooden floor. 'If you're going, I'm staying.'

'That's not an answer! Why did you do it, Britte? And why do you suddenly care now?'

'Who says I care? I just don't want to go.'

'Then why _don't_ you care? You're my sister!'

'That doesn't mean I have to like you!'

'So why are you worried about me going?'

'I just don't get why you want to.'

'Maybe because I want a family, and the only one I've ever known is a father who beat me up and a sister who – who was… I don't know, you!'

'Girls!' Constance stepped between them, her eyes wide. 'Please, it's not worth fighting over. Let's solve this peacefully.'

'I'm not going with her.' Britte shook her head firmly. 'I don't want to. I _like_ it here!'

There was something in her voice that Sissel had never heard there before – at least, not at any time other than when their father had just struck her. Tears. And suddenly Sissel's anger melted, because perhaps for the first time in her life, she _saw_ her sister. Saw her for what she was. A scared girl who'd grown up under their father's fists, so quick to strike and so hard-hitting. And as Jouane had said countless times, Lemkil was doing more than giving them bruises. He was hurting something inside them.

And Sissel had had Jouane there to make things a little easier. Britte had had no one. Not even her sister, who had been too scared to try to help. Sissel had always thought that she was the one who was worst hurt, with both her father and her sister as her enemies, but maybe… maybe all along, Britte had had the worst of it. And here, Britte felt loved by Constance and safe from anyone who might try to hurt her. She had friends for the first time in her life. Why should she want to leave? Family had never done any good for her.

And maybe, just maybe, now that she was around people who were kind to her… maybe Britte was beginning to regret all those times she'd picked on Sissel. Maybe, somewhere deep down, she was worried about her sister being given into the hands of strangers.

But Sissel still found it hard to summon up any feelings of love for the twin who'd given her almost as many bruises as her father. Any loyalty she felt to Britte came from the fact that they'd been together in the same womb. That was the only reason. Maybe the bitterness between them was stronger than any blood ties they shared.

'Britte,' she said quietly. 'If I go with Ozan and Jenassa… will you stay behind?'

Her twin stared at her for a few moments, then gave a single, decisive nod. 'Yes. Yes, I will. I want to stay here.'

Constance breathed in deeply. 'I'm not sure you can make that decision so quickly, Britte. After all, this is your sister – '

'That doesn't mean we're friends,' Britte muttered.

'Constance, we fight all the time, we always did.' Sissel turned to the orphanage owner, pleading with her with her eyes. 'If I want to go, then it's not fair to make Britte go too if she doesn't want to – and I'd be happy going without her.'

'And I'd be happy staying.' Britte shot Sissel a look that seemed almost grateful as she said the words.

Jenassa took a step towards them and fixed Sissel with her crimson gaze. 'Then I think the first thing that needs to be decided is whether or not you want to come with us.'

Sissel drew in a long, slow breath. It didn't take much thinking about, really. She was a little scared, of course she was, but… she was willing to take the risk.

'Yes.'

Behind her, she let Ozan let out a breath. He didn't sound relieved, or frightened, or anything, really. Not as far as she could tell. It was just a sound, an acknowledgement of her decision.

'I'm not coming.' Britte crossed her arms over her chest to underline her point. 'I'm sorry, I just don't want to.'

 _Did Britte just apologise for something?_

'Well… there's nothing in the law of the Hold that says siblings can't be separated if someone wants to adopt one but not the other.' Constance rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. 'And if the girls are happy with this arrangement… I suppose it's all right.'

'I'm happy with it,' Sissel said quickly.

Britte nodded. 'So am I.'

 _And now we're agreeing with each other. Weird._

'Then, um… there are a few forms that need to be signed. And some questions I'll need you to answer, just to make sure you're actually eligible.' Constance spoke in a rush; she seemed overwhelmed by the fact that after all her efforts, someone was finally going to be adopted. 'If it's easiest for you, we can arrange for Sissel to be escorted to your residence by a Hold guard, though it might take some days, or –'

Ozan shook his head. 'Safer with us.'

Sissel took that to mean that he thought she'd be safer with them, and she was inclined to agree. The man killed dragons, for the Gods' sakes. And it would be nice, passing the journey with them. She could get to know them.

If Jenassa became a little less prickly and Ozan decided to talk more, at least.

'Well, if you'll just step this way, I'll see if I can find the forms. They're in my office – I've never actually had a chance to use them before, you see.' Constance beckoned them forwards, then stopped dead. 'I still haven't served dinner.'

'We can do it ourselves, Constance,' Sissel said quickly.

'If you're sure.' Constance bent down so she could smile at Sissel on the same level. 'And Sissel – you might want to pack your things and say goodbye to everyone.'

'I will.' Was there anyone here she would actually miss? She liked everyone, maybe even Britte, and she really liked Runa and Constance, but… she didn't think that saying goodbye to the Honourhall would be all that hard. It might be harder for Runa, in fact, that in would be for her. She'd be the only girl again – wait, Britte was there too. But Runa and Britte had never talked all that much.

Sissel felt a pang of guilt. She didn't like leaving her friend behind. But she… she wanted this. And as Ozan and Jenassa followed Constance out of the room, she felt certain she'd made the right choice.

Nearly certain.

* * *

Within the space of an hour, Sissel was seated on a carriage again. Except this time, she was travelling away from Riften, there was no sullen sister seated opposite her, and no yellow-sashed guard beside her. The carriage driver was taking them north and west, towards the Pale – a Hold Sissel had never been to. And her companions were her new adopted family. She hesitated to call them 'parents' since she still didn't know what the relationship between the two of them was… and also because she'd prefer to get to know them a little more before she started thinking of them in that way.

Saying goodbye had indeed been easy. She'd gathered her things. She'd hugged Runa and Constance. Then she'd turned to Britte and given her a long, awkward look before saying, 'Um… goodbye.'

'Bye,' Britte had said quietly, but nothing more.

And so she'd followed Jenassa and Ozan out of the Honourhall and into whatever new life they planned to give her.

Now, just as the guard had done on the journey from Rorikstead, Jenassa was unfolding a map and leaning over to show Sissel their route. 'This is where Ozan and I live. Heljarchen Hall. It's near the border with the Pale and Whiterun.'

'Whiterun? So it must be close to Rorikstead.' Sissel felt a grin spread across her face. 'Could I visit my friends there?'

'Of course,' Jenassa assured her, and Ozan nodded. He still hadn't spoken much, but occasionally a smile had tugged at the corners of his mouth, and one did now.

'So you lived your whole life in Rorikstead until your father died?' Jenassa asked.

'Yeah. My mother died giving birth to me and Britte, and we had to grow up helping out on the farm.'

The Dunmer woman frowned slightly. 'And your father… wasn't well-liked by you. Or your sister?'

'I don't think anyone really liked him.' Sissel shrugged helplessly. 'He… didn't really like anyone else.'

Jenassa nodded slowly. 'I see.'

'He hit us. Sometimes. Well, a lot of the time. And Britte picked on me a bit too. So when I could I went round Jouane's house to learn about magic. He says I'm really good at it.'

'Magic?' Ozan repeated, and Sissel noticed that his expression was somewhat wary.

'Yeah, Jouane says that Nords don't often learn how to do magic, but it's really fun. Do you do any magic? Jouane told me that Dunmer are good at magic – especially fire spells.'

Jenassa laughed quietly. 'I've never been a mage, no. The sword's my weapon. I can wield a bow at a push. But I never learned magic – and I think Ozan prefers it that way.'

The Redguard gave a small nod.

'Why not? Do you not like magic?'

As she so often did, Jenassa spoke for him. 'He doesn't trust magic. A lot of Redguards don't. The theft of souls, the meddling with minds – and the fact that a mage doesn't set much store by martial strength. Redguards don't tend to be fond of those who trust in something other than their own physical abilities.'

'So do a lot of Nords.' Sissel frowned. 'I mean, don't a lot of Nords. I mean, um, most Nords don't like magic much either. And I'm a Nord.'

Jenassa gave a soft snort of amusement, and Sissel grinned, glad that the Dark Elf was becoming a little more open. 'Ozan's had some bad experiences with spellcasters,' she explained.

'What kind of experiences?'

He was silent for a long time. Then he gritted his teeth for a second and said, 'Thalmor.'

Sissel swallowed hard. She remembered once, when she'd been about eight, a party of Thalmor had passed through Rorikstead. She'd been out in the fields at the time, and she hadn't got a chance to get closer and take a good look at them, but she remembered watching them march up to Rorik's house, speak to him for no more than a few seconds, then barge inside. They'd done the same to all the houses in the village. 'They were searching for signs of Talos worship,' Jouane had said, when she asked him about it later. 'Didn't find anything, thank the Divines – however many of them there are. I was worried about Mralki and young Erik – they still follow the old ways. But it looks like they're smart enough not to keep any evidence around their home.'

She was the first to admit that she hadn't really understood then, and she wasn't sure she understood now. But she knew that most people in Skyrim hated the Thalmor, and she knew that they were mostly Altmer, and she knew that Altmer were generally mages. So it made sense that Ozan might hate the Thalmor, and if he hated the Thalmor, it made sense for him to hate mages too.

'Do you not like any people who use magic?' She crossed her fingers as she asked the question – with any luck, he would say that he would make an exception for her.

'Yes,' he replied.

'He means that there are some people who use magic who he does like.' Jenassa shot Sissel a sideways glance. 'If you spend much time around Ozan, you get used to his vague yeses. In fact, his vague nos are probably more complex to work out.'

'So who uses magic who you do like?'

He shrugged. 'Erandur. Serana.'

'Friends of ours,' Jenassa clarified. 'Serana and Ozan worked together during an… incident some years ago. And Erandur is a priest of Mara. A Dunmer like myself, but one who put the effort into learning magic.'

The mention of a priest of Mara gave Sissel the chance to ask the question that had been circling around in her head for some time. 'Are you and Ozan married?'

'No,' Ozan said instantly, then added, 'No vagueness there.'

'We live and work together,' Jenassa said cautiously. 'And have done for some years.'

'But are you actually _together?'_

Ozan wove his fingers together awkwardly, then nodded.

'When I first met Ozan, I was a mercenary. He hired me to assist him with a difficult task, and we found our fighting styles suited each other. I remained in his service.' Jenassa gave a small smile. 'And over time, we found that we suited each other in other ways, also.'

'So what do you do? Are you adventurers?'

Ozan, at last, answered this question. 'Partly.'

'He has his own work, in Dawnstar. I assist with it.' Jenassa leaned back against her seat. 'And when his… employers… have no need of him, then yes, we are adventurers.'

'And you fight dragons.'

Jenassa looked startled, and Ozan spoke up quickly. 'When we met in Rorikstead, I told her I fight them.'

It was the longest speech Sissel had heard from him yet. Maybe he felt more comfortable about speaking when he wasn't around strangers.

'It's not something we do as a career, exactly. I think the only thing that marks us out as 'people who fight dragons' is that when we encounter one – which happens far more often than is convenient - we spur our horses towards it rather than away from it,' Jenassa said wryly. 'They are a unique challenge to fight, though. And their scales fetch a fine price.'

Sissel felt a smile spread across her face. It was incredible enough that these people had adopted her. To learn that they regularly battled dragons, and _won…_

'Night soon,' Ozan remarked, glancing up at the sky – Sissel took that to mean, _it'll be night soon._

'Yes, and it'll take us more than a full day to reach home, most likely.' The look Jenassa gave Sissel was, for a moment, impossible to read. Then she realised that the best word for it was _protective._ 'Don't be worried about going to sleep. If anything decides to attack this carriage, we can see to it.'

Sissel smiled. Now that her odd companions mentioned it, she realsied she was tired. As she had on her last carriage journey, pulled a spare shirt from inside her bag, folded it, and laid her head down upon it. 'OK,' she said. 'But a dragon attacks us, wake me up. I want to see the fight.'

The last thing she heard before she drifted into sleep was Ozan's gentle chuckle.

* * *

 **And yet again, the story is turning out to be longer than my plan intended... no surprises there.**

 **I hope you enjoyed getting a little bit of a closer look at Ozan - over the next couple of chapters, he'll become a little easier to know. Thanks for reading!**


	4. New Blood

CHAPTER FOUR – NEW BLOOD

'And here we are.'

The carriage drew to a halt as Jenassa spoke, and Sissel threw herself against the side so that she could lean out over the edge and take her first look at Ozan's home – and her home. It wasn't a word she was used to thinking of positively. Back when her father had been alive, _home_ meant being around him and Britte. It meant having to pick her words carefully and keep an eye on their fists in case they started heading in her direction. It meant time that wasn't spent with Jouane, learning about magic, or just talking. No, she wasn't used to thinking of home as a good thing, and so she was surprised by the leap her spirits made as she caught sight of the building that stood ahead of her.

Ozan had warned her that his home wasn't in a warm area, but that hadn't troubled Sissel; she was a Nord, and growing up in the Whiterun plains had forced her to become accustomed to cold winds. Still, she'd been expecting Ozan's home to be surrounded by the golden grass she'd grown so used to, and so she'd been a little startled when the ground had vanished around them, hidden by a thick blanket of snow. Of course, snow had often covered Rorikstead in the winter, but she wasn't used to having it around permanently, and something told her that snow was going to be a fact of life here.

Amid the snow and the rocks, Heljarchen Hall stood at the foot of a slope, a building of a kind Sissel simply hadn't seen before. For ten years of her life, the grandest building she'd known had been Rorik's home, and even that had only a single storey. In Riften, she'd often gazed in awe at the Temple of Mara, and at the Jarl's palace of Mistveil Keep. But those buildings had been made for people who were rich and important. Ozan was not a Jarl, or a Divine, and his home was neither a palace or a temple. It was just a house, a place to be lived in – but it was easily twice the size of Rorik's place. Two storeys, with a kind of tower built against one wall, and a balcony along another. A sheltered corner housed what looked like a vegetable garden, protected from the snow by a wall of woven branches. Not far away from the entrance, a small wooden building stood beneath a patch of trees. A stable, Sissel realised, noticing the brown horse standing within it. There was another horse, too – a sleek black one, not in the stable, but standing with its head down close to the garden, nosing aside the snow to get at the grass underneath.

'I think your horse got out,' Sissel remarked, pointing at it.

Ozan shook his head. 'She won't run.'

'We let Shadowmere wander where she pleases.' Jenassa jumped down from the cart and collected Sissel's bag for her. 'She… isn't like most horses.'

The horse – Shadowmere – looked up as Ozan disembarked, and let out a high-pitched whinny. The snow crunched under her hooves as she trotted towards them, and Sissel shrank back a little, making sure that she was standing behind Ozan. She might have sat in carriages pulled by horses, or watched people ride through Rorikstead, but she'd never been up close to one, and this one was a little too large for her to feel comfortable standing close to it.

Ozan lifted his hand, pressing it against the horse's face, and when Shadowmere let out a soft nicker at his touch, Sissel thought it safe to draw a little closer. There was no denying that this was a beautiful animal – except, perhaps, for the fact that its eyes were bright red. Really, really bright red.

'Her eyes…' Sissel said faintly, staring at them.

'Not dangerous.' Ozan gestured for her to come a little closer. 'No ordinary horse. But not dangerous.'

'If she's not ordinary, then what is she?'

Ozan frowned for a moment before responding. 'Not natural. Created by magic. Very intelligent.' He glanced down at Sissel. 'Nothing to fear.'

Sissel breathed in deeply, and dared to reach up to touch Shadowmere's nose. Her muzzle was smoother to the touch than she'd been expecting, and she carefully laid her hand flat over the soft black skin. 'Hi, Shadowmere. I'm Sissel.'

'She lives with us now,' Ozan added, and the slow dipping of the horse's head looked oddly like a nod. As if she were responding to his statement, saying, _all right, I understand._

The chink of coins made Sissel turn her head; Jenassa was pressing a handful of Septims into the carriage driver's palm. Sissel felt an unfamiliar emotion – eagerness – rising up within her as the Dunmer finished the exchange of money and headed over to join them. She wanted, she realised, to see inside the house, to find out where she would be staying, to start living within the same walls as her new family.

'We've always had a room for guests,' Jenassa told Sissel, as Ozan led the way towards the door. 'It'll be yours now. Since your coming to live with us wasn't anticipated – ' She cast a meaningful glance at Ozan, who responded only by raising his eyebrows – 'It's not exactly set up for you right now, but we can sort that out easily enough.'

Ozan pushed the door open and stood back to let Sissel and Jenassa through. Glad to be out of the cold – it might not trouble her, exactly, but that didn't make it pleasant – Sissel hurried inside. It was a little dark, but she had a feeling it would be much brighter once the torches on the walls were lit, and there was enough light trickling in through the windows for her to take a proper look around. She was standing in what seemed to be an entryway, or a short hall. The roof was high and arched – it looked a bit like the underside of a boat, Sissel mused. A pair of elk heads, stuffed and preserved somehow, were mounted high on the walls, facing each other, and on either side of the hall was a long, low table, each with a glass case resting on top. Sissel edged closer to the nearest, and saw that there was a weapon beneath the glass, a dagger with a blade that appeared to be ebony.

Ozan let out a satisfied sound and pulled down his hood. Sissel realised now that she'd never seen him without it up before, and she was glad to see that his face looked a little less forbidding when it wasn't surrounded by the dark cloth. His black hair was cut short, probably for practicality's sake. Long hair, Sissel guessed, wasn't a useful thing to have if you lived an adventurer's life.

She stood back, watching, while he and Jenassa unbuckled their weapons from their belts, placing them into the racks attached to the walls. Jenassa's sword and dagger were simple weapons, made for nothing but the purpose of combat, but Ozan's arms seemed more elaborate. His scimitar, for example. She remembered a time when a pair of Redguard men had lodged in Mralki's inn, and both had carried weapons like this, with a smooth curve to the blade and a circular golden hilt. As he shrugged off his black jacket-coat, he revealed two daggers, one at each hip, and neither was a functional object like Jenassa's. One was slightly curved, with a red-bound hilt and a hook-like shape forming the pommel. The second was harder to get a close look at, since it was contained within a black sheath trimmed with silver, but it even then, it was lethal to look at. It was only about as long as Ozan's hand, but something about the jagged spikes of the hilt looked… dangerous. Sissel tried to picture Ozan jumping on a dragon from above, driving this blade into the creature's head and stabbing the life from it, and it didn't seem at all unrealistic.

Once his weapons were set aside, though, the man who'd adopted her seemed far more real and normal. With his coat-thing gone, too, she could see that his clothes weren't anywhere near as outlandish and fierce-looking as his weapons; a jacket and tunic, mostly black and red, though with intricate gold and white patterns. It wasn't the kind of thing people in Rorikstead would have worn, but it was near enough to being normal for Sissel to like it.

'I'm going to change out of my armour,' Jenassa reported, pushing open the door at the far end of the entryway. 'I'll join you in a little while.'

Ozan nodded, took Sissel's bag from her, and gestured for Sissel to follow him further inside the house. The hallway opened out into a large room, mostly dominated by a long wooden table, with a fireplace at one end and a staircase leading up to the house's second storey on either side. While Jenassa headed towards the right-hand stairway, Ozan led Sissel towards the one on the left.

'I've never had to climb this many stairs before,' she remarked, as she started up them.

Ozan turned to glance back at her, amusement flickering across his face. 'You should see High Hrothgar.'

Sissel's eyes widened. 'Have you been there?'

'Climbed it.'

'All seven thousand steps?'

'With interest.'

Sissel didn't understand this last remark, but she took it to mean _yes._ 'Wow. I'd like to climb them someday.'

Ozan let out a quiet chuckle. It surprised her. She hadn't heard him laugh before. Maybe in his own home, he felt more comfortable doing it. More able to relax.

'Maybe,' he said.

A grin spread across Sissel's face. This was already a whole lot better than living in the Honourhall.

They had reached the top of the steps; from here, a short walk across a landing and the opening of another door led into a small room that Sissel could tell instantly was intended for her. There was a small bed, a dresser, a low cupboard – probably nothing much if you were a Jarl, or someone as rich as Maven Black-Briar, but for Sissel… for Sissel, it was more than had ever belonged to her in her life.

'Yours,' Ozan said, gesturing around. 'Not much now, but… there'll be more.'

'It's great.' Sissel's smile was so fierce now that it was hurting the sides of her mouth. 'Thank you.'

He didn't smile, but a warmth entered his eyes that amounted to the same thing. He set her bag down on top of the dresser and watched as she pulled the trivial amount she owned out of it. When she'd said yes to the question of whether or not she'd want to be adopted, she'd never really considered how much money her prospective family might have. But having seen inside Heljarchen Hall, it was obvious that Ozan was wealthier than anyone in Rorikstead – probably wealthier than all of Rorikstead's inhabitants put together. She'd been very, very fortunate. She could have as many warm clothes as she needed now. As many books as she wanted. It was more than a little overwhelming. Adventuring must pay well.

Adventuring. Sissel frowned. 'How often will you be at home?'

'Jenassa and I work most days.' Ozan clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. 'A friend in Dawnstar might look after you when we're not here.'

He seemed uncomfortable saying so many words together, so Sissel decided that from now on, she'd phrase her questions in a way that required him to give only short responses. 'What's their name?'

'Erandur. Mentioned him earlier.'

'You said he was a priest of Mara?'

He nodded. 'Good man. Clever.' He frowned. 'Could teach you.'

Sissel tried not to show how excited this statement made her. 'Teach me what?'

'Magic. If you want.'

'I do.' The words poured from Sissel's mouth. 'I really want to learn – Jouane never got a chance to teach me well, and I didn't really much, just little spells, like how to put out candles…'

Ozan gave a short nod. 'Erandur can teach you. I'll ask. Other things, too.'

 _Other things_ was almost as exciting as magic. Sissel assumed he meant the basic things like reading and writing and adding up – the sorts of things that Jouane had started to teach her. Things that might not make colourful explosions, but which would be useful. It never seemed to have occurred to Lemkil that she and Britte might need to know such things. Constance had given them lessons at the Honourhall; it was a relief to know she wouldn't have to stop learning now.

Ozan took a step back and hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. 'I'll let you unpack. Call you down for food.'

'Thanks.'

She watched him back out of the door and pull it shut, and listened to the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs. And when the sound had faded, she put her bag on one side and sat down on the bed.

A day earlier, she'd been living in an orphanage with one friend, a bad-tempered sister, and a pack of noisy boys. No magic lessons. No clear future. And now, she was in a grand house with her own room, adopted by a man who could kill dragons and who knew someone who could teach her magic.

A thought occurred to her: should she be thinking of Ozan as her adopted father? It was strange, attaching the word _father_ to a man she barely knew. She wasn't sure she could do it. _Family is more than shared blood,_ Jouane had said. Well, already Ozan felt a bit like family, and maybe Jenassa would too, in time, but… calling him her father seemed impossible.

Maybe it reminded her too much of what had happened to her real father. It still hurt, to think of him lying there among the iced droplets of his own blood.

She decided not to dwell on it any further. It was too soon to know. All she knew for certain was that right now, she felt something she wasn't used to feeling.

She felt absurdly happy.

* * *

The rest of the day passed quietly. They ate a simple meal from the rations Ozan and Jenassa had bought as they passed through settlements on their way to Heljarchen Hall, a meal through whose duration Jenassa occasionally glanced up from her food to ask a question about Sissel's life and interests. Ozan asked no questions, but let the occasional word slip here and there, and he listened intently to every answer Sissel gave. Around Jenassa, he was quieter than he had been upstairs – probably because the Dunmer was speaking for both of them. More than once, he swapped a glance with her, and she would instantly begin a sentence with, 'I think Ozan's wondering…' or 'Ozan would like to know…' Sissel hoped that, with time, she'd become equally skilled at reading the Redguard's face.

After that, they showed her around the house – the room where they stored weapons and armour, the tower where Ozan stocked his alchemical ingredients ( _'Don't_ touch,' he warned her, and she hastily promised not to), the area for preparing food. Sissel took note of the fact that they referred to the room with the double bed as 'our room.' More evidence that they were a couple. Though it was still beyond her why they weren't married. Especially if they had a friend who was a priest of Mara.

It was as Ozan talked her through some of his alchemical ingredients – or rather, as Ozan provided the names and Jenassa added the explanations – that she finally learned a little more about him. He showed her a crumbly white rock which, he said, could be mixed with certain substances to create the white paint that decorated his face. 'Why do you wear it?' she asked. 'The warpaint, I mean.'

He frowned and lifted a hand, tracing the lines. 'Tradition.'

'What kind of tradition?'

'Redguard.'

 _Obviously,_ Sissel thought, with a trace of irritation. 'Do a lot of Redguards have it, then?'

'Not uncommon in Hammerfell.'

'So do you come from Hammerfell?'

A nod.

'Does the paint mean anything?'

'Depends.'

Jenassa rolled her eyes. 'Try to string more than a few words together, Zan. Sentences aren't all that intimidating, you know.'

He shot her a half-indignant, half-warm look. 'Depends. On who wears it. And why.'

'Very good. Now tell her why you wear it. Conversation needn't be like getting blood out of a stone.'

Ozan snorted, but complied. 'Redguard warriors often use traditional patterns as face decoration. Shows respect for forebears. I was raised to fight. Redguard tradition was always important to me.'

Jenassa had been counting on her fingers. Now she held up both hands, smirking. 'Twenty five words. We're seeing improvement.'

Sissel couldn't help but laugh. Jenassa was growing on her. Maybe she'd been too quick to decide that the elf didn't want her around.

'Do you follow a lot of Redguard traditions, then?'

He shrugged. 'Some. Warpaint. Curved sword.'

'Some Redguard warriors stayed in Rorikstead for a little while. They had curved swords too. The village guards kept asking everyone if they'd seen those warriors from Hammerfell with their curved swords. _Curved. Swords.'_ She tried to say it the way the guards had said it, and was rewarded with another chuckle from both adults.

'Nords are particularly unimaginative with their weapon designs,' Jenassa remarked. 'But to give them their due, a curved blade is unusual.'

Ozan stuffed his hands into his pockets. 'A straight blade with the same weight as a scimitar has more reach. Other races think them impractical. But they're made to slash, not stab. Perfect for horsemen. And the curve gives it more force on impact.'

'And there we are. He says barely a word for hours, and then you ask him a question about his beloved scimitars, and he opens up.' Jenassa threw her hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.

Ozan shrugged. 'What I say about scimitars is fact. There's none of me in it.'

'What?' Sissel blinked, running the statement through her head to double-check that she didn't understand it. No, it still made no sense.

'He has a theory.' Jenassa folded her arms across her chest. 'That the more you speak, the more danger you're in. Words, he says, express our thoughts, and the more the people around you know about what you think, the more they have to use against you. The fact that nobody in the present company has any reason to want to hurt him apparently doesn't occur to him.'

'It does,' Ozan protested. 'That's not the only reason. Words are dangerous. Weapons. Weapons should be used sparingly.'

Jenassa shot Sissel a _see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with_ look. 'You know, he can be very good conversation if you can get him to string enough words together. Give him some time.'

Ozan responded with a noncommittal grunt.

With the tour of the house finished, Ozan looked through the meagre collection of items that Sissel had brought with her, and compiled a list of what needed to be bought for her. And when he was done, there was a long silence, as Sissel wondered what she would do for the rest of the day, and Ozan seemed to be considering the same thing.

'Not much here for a child to do,' he said. 'That'll change.'

Sissel thought back to their earlier conversation. 'You said you were brought up to fight. Were you always being taught? Even when you were my age?'

'Most of the time, yes.'

'But you must have done other things.'

'I read. Mixed potions.' A wistful look crept into his eyes. 'When I was very young, my sister used to tell stories.'

His face closed off suddenly, the emotion draining from it, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. As if he regretted revealing something so private and now he was retreating inside himself for protection against the consequences.

'You have a sister?' Sissel asked.

A slight pause; then he gave a short shake of his head. 'I had a sister.'

'Oh.' Sissel guessed that he'd had a sister in the same way she'd had a father. 'What happened to her?'

He didn't lift his gaze from the floor. 'Thalmor.'

Sissel remembered how he'd said the same yesterday evening, when she'd asked him what kind of bad experiences he'd had with mages, and bit her lip. 'Sorry.'

No reply.

'What was her name?'

'Meerah.'

There was so much pain in his voice that Sissel couldn't help but think of Britte, and how she didn't think it would hurt her very much at all to lose her. 'Did you love her?'

'Very much.' He lifted his head at last, but though he looked at her, his expression was distant. 'She was seven years older than me. Always took care of me.' The ghost of a smile flittered across his face. 'Told the best stories.'

'What were the stories about?'

His gaze focused on Sissel at last, and she noticed that it had grown thoughtful. He stood there for a moment, then crossed the room and sat on the bed beside her.

'The ancient fables,' he said. The tales of great warriors. Have you heard of Cyrus?'

Sissel shook her head.

'Understandable. Not a name most Nord children would know.'

'Who was he?'

'The best and the bravest of Redguard warriors. His tale was always my favourite.'

'How did it go?'

Ozan stared at her for a second, then drew in a breath. 'I'm not Meerah. She made the words sing. I can't. Words never came easily to me. But a story doesn't come from inside me. I never had trouble speaking a story aloud, because the words aren't mine.'

He closed his eyes for a moment. And then he spoke again, and there was something different about his voice. As if he were no longer holding back, counting his words. As if he was just letting everything come easily.

'In days so ancient that the rocks of then have been worn down to sand, so fierce that the sun would fear to rise above the horizon, so great that to presume to give them a name is to do them a dishonour, a man who would become a legend walked on Nirn. His name was Cyrus, and wherever he placed his feet, he set stories into motion…'

Sissel closed her eyes and let the words form pictures in her mind. She sat there beside her foster father, listening to his voice, following the warrior Cyrus on his quest to find his sister.

When Ozan finished, it took them both some time to realise that night had fallen.

* * *

The next morning dawned clear and bright, the snow so fiercely white in the full glare of the sun that it was hard to look at. There was a cold breeze, though, beating against the pines, and Sissel was grateful that Ozan had warned her to wrap up warm.

About an hour after her waking, they were ready for the journey. Jenassa and Ozan had both kitted themselves out in their armour and weapons again. When Ozan called Shadowmere over, Sissel couldn't stop herself from gulping – she'd been trying to prepare herself for this, but the idea of riding such a large animal was still somewhat terrifying.

'I've put an extra pad behind the saddle. Firmly strapped,' Ozan assured her. 'Hold on to me. You won't fall.'

'You won't go too fast, will you?'

'No faster than you're comfortable with. Are you ready?'

'I think so.'

Getting onto the horse was easier than she'd anticipated – Ozan swung himself up ('Always mount from the left. No risk of your weapons hitting the horse'), and then Jenassa lifted Sissel up after him. As for the actual riding… it was frightening at first, being so far from the ground, but Shadowmere kept to a pace no faster than a brisk walk, and once they were out into the wilderness, it was easy to watch the trees sliding by and forget how badly hurt she could be if she fell.

Still, it was a relief when Dawnstar came into view ahead of them, a string of wooden houses along the shore of what could only be the sea. Sissel gazed at it, breathless, as Shadowmere went past. The lake at Riften had been big, but this was big on a different scale. The thought of water that just went on forever, water that could have anything stirring far beneath the surface…

They didn't stop in the town itself; instead, Ozan and Jenassa led the horses up a hill just beyond it, where the thick dark mark of a tower stood out against the grey of the sky. Here, at last, they dismounted, with Ozan helping Sissel down. Wincing, she stretched out her legs and rolled her shoulders back to shake the stiffness from them. Maybe she'd take to horse riding in time, but right now, she wasn't sure how much she enjoyed it.

Jenassa tethered her horse outside the tower, while Ozan simply left Shadowmere standing in the snow and approached the building's door. The tower itself, tall and sturdily build, constructed from thick grey stone, was forbidding to look at, but its otherwise ominous appearance was softened by the banners that hung on either side of the entryway. Sissel had seem similar decorations outside Riften's temple to Mara. They were a comforting sight.

Ozan pulled open the tower door without knocking, gesturing for Sissel to follow him inside. The place was warmly lit by candles and lanterns, casting a faint amber glow over the iron-coloured walls. Sissel stamped the snow from her boots, watching as Ozan stepped into the centre of the room, cupping his hands around his mouth, called out in the loudest voice Sissel had heard him use yet. 'Erandur?'

There was a short silence, filled swiftly by the sound of footsteps. Sissel watched the doorway, waiting for Ozan's friend to appear in it – as indeed he did a few moments later. A Dunmer, like Jenassa, dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard visible beneath his hood, wearing the familiar yellow-brown robes that she recognised from the Riften priests. His face split into a smile as he saw them standing there, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides, grasping Ozan's hand in both of his. 'Ozan. And Jenassa. It's good to see you.'

'And you, Erandur,' Jenassa replied, while Ozan smiled and nodded. It took a moment for the priest to notice that Sissel was standing there, but when he did, she decided instantly that she liked him. It would be hard not to like someone who beamed at her so widely and so readily.

'Welcome to the Temple of Mara, my daughter.' He gave a soft chuckle. 'At least, it will be a Temple of Mara once I'm through with it. I'm Erandur. Head and currently only priest here.'

Ozan's eyes flicked between them. 'This is Sissel.'

'Another foundling for me?'

'Not this time.' Jenassa shook her head. 'It's going to take some explaining.'

Ozan frowned slightly. 'It's not. We adopted her.'

Jenassa raised her eyebrows, but did not protest at the _we._ Erandur glanced towards Ozan, a mingled look of surprise and pleasure on his face. 'I see. So, you need me to take care of her while you're… working?'

He received a nod in reply.

'If you could, at least,' Jenassa added. 'It would be appreciated.'

'But of course. It'd be a pleasure.'

Sissel felt comfortable enough now in her new acquaintance's presence to speak. 'Ozan says you can teach me magic.'

She would never have expected eyes that were so startling to look at – blood red, slanted in a way very unlike a human's – could contain so much warmth. 'You're interested in the arcane, are you?'

Sissel nodded quickly. 'I already know a little. My friend taught me when I lived in Rorikstead, but I've not practiced for months…'

Ozan took an abrupt step forwards. 'Erandur. I need to talk.'

The priest dipped his head slowly. 'How about I take Sissel downstairs to meet Alesan? Then I'll come back up and we can discuss whatever it is you need help with.'

When this statement was met with a grunt of approval, Erandur turned, beckoning for Sissel to follow him. She felt no qualms about doing so, stranger though he might be. There were some people, like Jouane, like Constance, who simply emanated a sense of safeness. People who you just knew wouldn't try to hurt you.

The interior of the temple was formed of winding corridors; here and there, Sissel spotted them opening out into rooms. Some were brightly lit; others were too dark to see into, with cobewebs clustering their entrances, and others were sealed tightly behind closed doors.

'This place hasn't been a temple for all that long,' Erandur explained, clearly spotting her looking. 'It had been abandoned for years when I came to live here, and it had been used for… less than holy purposes before that. Alesan and I have spent most of the past year taking out the inappropriate contents and cleaning up the place, and we're still not finished.'

'Who's Alesan?'

'My apprentice. Ozan brought him here, actually. Found him on the streets of Dawnstar, an orphan without any home or family. He guessed that I'd be willing to care for him, and he guessed right. He's learning my trade now. I left him down in the living area.'

On reaching the area in question, Sissel was surprised to see that Alesan could only be a year or so older than herself. He was a Redguard, like Ozan, clad in robes that looked like am smaller, homemade version of Erandur's. He was seated on one of the beds when they entered the room, flicking through the pages of a book, but he stood up quickly when they entered.

'Sissel, this is Alesan.' Erandur opened out his arms, gesturing to each of them. 'Alesan, this is Sissel. She's Ozan's adopted daughter.'

Alesan blinked. 'I didn't know Ozan had an adopted daughter.'

'He didn't, until he adopted me,' Sissel replied.

The boy stared at her for a moment, then shrugged and grinned. 'Fair enough.'

'She's going to be staying with us for the day,' Erandur said. 'Maybe frequently. Ozan and Jenassa can't look after her while they're working. You won't be alone in your lessons from now on.'

'Great,' Alesan said instantly, and from the smile on his face, Sissel was fairly sure that he meant it. That was nice. It was good to feel wanted.

Erandur half-turned back towards the door. 'I've got to go and talk something over with Ozan, but it shouldn't take too long.'

'Of course not.' Alesan let out a quick laugh. 'It's Ozan. Talking with him never takes long.'

'Mmm. That's generally true.' Erandur gave them both one last smile, then headed back up the stairs.

Alesan looked after him, waiting until he was gone, then turned to face Sissel. 'Well… hi.'

'Hi.'

'Where do you come from?'

'Rorikstead. In Whiterun Hold.'

He shook his head. 'Never heard of it.'

'You don't need to have heard of it, it's tiny. How about you?'

'My dad was a sailor.' He bit his lip. 'But then he got sick, and the other sailors threw us both off the ship in Dawnstar. He died, and… I was on my own, until Ozan found me.'

'My father died too,' Sissel said, glad to find a connection with this potential friend. 'Someone murdered him. The people in Rorikstead said that it was the Dark Brotherood.'

Alesan's eyes widened. 'Why would someone want to have assassins kill your father?'

'I don't know. He was a farmer. But he was rude to a lot of people, so…'

She let her voice trail off. It was surprising how much it hurt, to talk about what had happened to Lemkil. Even to think about it.

'How did you meet Ozan?' Alesan asked, and she was grateful for the change of subject.

'Well, we met in Rorikstead. He was passing through, and he helped me when I was hurt. Then after my dad died, he found out, and he came to check that I was OK. He ended up adopting me.'

Alesan nodded. 'Sounds like him. He did pretty much the same thing with me.'

Sissel was surprised by the flicker of jealousy that stirred within her at his words. She'd already, she realised, become accustomed to the idea that she was special to Ozan, that he was in some way hers. It made it somewhat less special if he had a habit of helping orphaned children. But then, he'd simply bought Alesan to Erandur. For some reason, he'd taken in Sissel, into his home, into his family.

'Erandur told me that he brought you to live here,' Sissel said slowly. 'I wonder why he adopted me himself.'

'Don't ask me. Maybe he just wanted a family.'

'He's not even married to Jenassa, though. They are together, right?'

Alesan laughed. 'Oblivion, yeah. That's just about the most obvious thing in the world. If they're trying to hide it, they're failing. I mean, _really_ failing.'

It was impossible for Sissel to stop herself from grinning; it was good to know that she wasn't just imagining things. 'Thought so. But you'd think that if he wanted kids, he'd have them with her. Unless Redguards can't have kids with Dunmer.'

'Humans and elves can have kids. Erandur's got this book, Racial Phylogeny, that explains how it works. Though he did tell me to take anything that book said with a pinch of salt, because there's a mistake in chapter seven, apparently, about the biology of Khajiit forms or something like that.' Alesan shrugged. 'But I don't that that's the reason.'

Sissel raised her eyebrows. 'So what do you think the reason is?'

'I only know what Erandur's told me. But he said something once about Ozan having a condition that meant he couldn't have children.'

'What kind of condition?'

He shook his head. 'No idea. He just said that, _a condition._ You know that face adults make when they don't want to talk about the thing they're talking about?

Sissel snorted. 'Nine Divines, yes.'

'Yeah, well, Erandur had that face when I tried to get him to talk about it.' He shrugged again. 'I don't know. I never know when it comes to Ozan, he's so… you know. He barely ever says anything. But he comes here quite a lot, to talk to Erandur, mostly. Sometimes he helps us with cleaning out the temple.'

'That's not all you do here, right?'

'Course not. Sometimes we go down into the town to help the people. You know, healing and stuff. Erandur's teaching me spells.'

'I know some magic too,' Sissel said eagerly. 'A friend of mine taught me when I lived in Rorikstead. I don't know any healing magic, though. Just how to make lights, and a spell that shows the way for you when you're lost, and a bit of fire magic.'

'I know all that stuff. And healing, and some Illusion spells.' Alesan seemed to notice her expression of disappointment, because he quickly added, 'But Erandur can teach you everything I know.'

'Do you like Erandur?'

'Oh, yeah, he's great. I swear, he knows pretty much everything. He's more than three hundred years old, and he's just, like, the _best ever_ at magic. There was this one time we were walking to Dawnstar and a frost troll attacked us. I thought it was going to rip us apart, but Erandur just stood in front of it and threw fire at it…'

Alesan didn't have the same kind of intricacy of speech that had made Ozan's tale so beautiful to listen to, but the story was exciting enough, so Sissel was happy to listen. She hoped that some day she'd be able to watch Ozan in action, so that she could boast about him the same way Alesan seemed to enjoy boasting about Erandur. Seeing as Ozan fought dragons, she could probably have some fun telling stories like this.

As Alesan reached the part of his story where the troll collapsed onto the snow, its fur going up in flames, Sissel's ears pickled up a new sound beneath the sound of his voice. After a few moments, Alesan seemed to notice it too, for he quickly described the troll's death, then turned towards the door to listen. Sissel thought perhaps she heard the low murmur of Ozan's voice; then Erandur's joined it, a little more clearly.

'You know I don't agree with what you did,' he was saying. 'But I know that you're trying. That's clear. You want to make amends, and that counts for a lot.'

Ozan's husky voice echoed along the corridors in reply. 'I hope so.'

'It matters, believe me. Never doubt that it matters. Never doubt that you matter, either.'

Jenassa let out a chuckle. 'I can remind him of that, if it ever seems he's forgetting.'

They emerged into the room together. Jenassa and Erandur lingered in the doorway, while Ozan strode down the steps towards Sissel. 'We're leaving now. Might not be back until late. But we'll be back.'

Sissel smiled and nodded. 'OK. Have a good day.'

He dipped his head to her and turned towards the door. Then he stopped, stood with his back to her for a moment, then spun back around and walked over to her. Crouching so that he could look into her eyes from her level, he placed one hand on her shoulder.

Some deep-seated instinct in Sissel told her to flinch away. Because Ozan was a powerfully built man who was, at least on paper, her father. And the last powerfully built man who she could have called _father_ had only ever touched her to hurt her. But she didn't flinch away. Because Ozan wasn't Lemkil.

Lemkil had never put his hand on her shoulder. The thought made her both angry and sad.

'I'm sorry. To be gone for so long.' Ozan pursed his lips, turning his head away. 'If things were different… if I were different…'

'It's OK,' Sissel said hurriedly. 'I don't mind.'

He straightened up. 'Good. Thank you.'

Suddenly looking awkward, embarrassed even, he took a few steps backward. Then he headed up the steps and out of the doorway, Jenassa following close behind him.

There was silence for a few moments after they were gone; then Alesan whistled softly. 'You're already getting complete sentences from him. That's a good sign.'

'Have some consideration, Alesan. Ozan might be…' Erandur hesitated, as if searching for the right words. ' _… Taciturn,_ but he has a good heart.' He shot Sissel a smile. 'You're in very good hands.'

Sissel grinned. 'I know.'

'Good to hear it.' Erandur clasped his hands together. 'Now. How about we get started on those magic lessons?'

* * *

 **About Shadowmere's gender... I know s/he's referred to as a male in Skyrim, but I've just got used to thinking of her/him as a female, as s/he is in Oblivion. I hope no one minds.**

 **If anyone's wondering, I imagine Ozan's gear as being similar to the Regal Assassin Armour mod – I play on Xbox, so I don't have it myself, but I think it looks both vaguely Redguard-ish and less… overtly assassin-y as the Dark Brotherhood armour. As for his black jacket-coat-thing, that's something of my own invention. I think at some point I'll draw Ozan in his gear and put it on DeviantArt, so you guys can picture him a little more clearly.**

 **This chapter may have been a bit quiet, but this will probably be the last of the chapters involving Sissel settling into her new life. From now on, things will be getting more interesting... Thanks for reading!**


	5. Bad Blood

CHAPTER FIVE – BAD BLOOD

Time passed quicker than Sissel would ever have imagined it could.

The days went by in more or less the same way. She'd wake early, spend a few minutes reading before heading downstairs to eat. Then she'd gather her books and they'd set out together on horseback across the Pale, Jenassa riding Enamor, her brown mare, and Sissel seated behind Ozan on Shadowmere. Once they reached Erandur's temple, they would go their separate ways, with Ozan and Jenassa heading off to whatever work it was that they did, and Sissel beginning the day's lessons. Erandur was a good teacher – firm, but unfailingly kind. He and Sissel and Alesan would usually spend a few hours in the morning cleaning old junk out of the temple. Then a few more hours of magic practice, and maybe some other lessons, about the cultures and history and geography of Tamriel, and then some time free for them to read or talk.

At some point in the evening, Ozan and Jenassa would return. They'd ride back home. Another meal, and then she'd head up to her room. Sometimes Ozan would sit beside her bed and tell her one of his entrancing stories, and those were her favourite kinds of evenings, because she loved hearing him speak freely. Once he had finished, there would always be a short silence. Then he would say, 'Good night, Sissel,' snuff out the candle by her bedside, and retreat from her room on silent feet.

The only real measure of how much time was passing was what she learned. From being able to put out only the tiniest flames, she became skilled enough to ignite the logs in the fireplace at home with a single flick of her hand, and then capable of launching a small bolt of fire which, Erandur said, could save her life if she was ever ambushed by a wolf or even a bandit. And then there were the healing spells, too – beginning with just the simple ones that could heal cuts or scrapes, and then more complex spells which might close a deep wound and save someone's life. At first, if someone in Dawnstar called for their help curing a sick child or a wounded friend, Erandur and Alesan would tend to them, with Sissel watching to see how it was done. But soon enough, Erandur was asking for her help too – 'See to those cuts, please, Sissel, while we deal with the infected wound,' or, 'Sissel, could you cast a Calm spell on her so she stops writhing? Well done.'

Sometimes, when Ozan told his tales in the evening, Sissel would find herself smiling as she realised that she knew about the period of history he was describing, or that she knew all about the laws and customs of the place the latest tale was set. And Erandur was not her only teacher. One day Ozan went riding out alone, leaving Sissel and Jenassa at home, and when he returned, he was leading a dapple-grey pony by the halter. 'He's yours,' he said simply, and Sissel hugged him and thanked him again and again. The rest of the day was spent listening to Ozan's instructions as he taught her how to make the pony – she named him Cyrus - move and stop, and how to steer. She had a long way to go, but every day, the saddle felt more and more natural to sit in, and Cyrus less like an unpredictable animal and more like a friend. It wasn't long before she was able to ride him to Dawnstar and back every day. She was responsible for feeding him and grooming him, and she was fine with that. For one thing, it was farm work, and she knew plenty about farm work, even if Lemkil had never been able to afford a horse. And for a second, having the responsibility, knowing that Ozan trusted her with it… it felt wonderful.

With every passing day, Ozan and Jenassa felt less like strangers who had been compassionate enough to take her in and more like family. Ozan never changed – he was always quiet, always silent unless he had something worth saying, and always kind to her, in his very odd way. Jenassa, though - either she changed, or Sissel had misjudged her. Maybe a bit of both. The Dunmer might not tell stories like Ozan did, but she was the one who stayed up until almost midnight teaching Sissel how to beat Ozan at his favourite card game, and filled in silences when Ozan didn't seem to feel like talking, and offered to clean out Cyrus's stable if Sissel felt too tired to do it herself. And after a while, she became more willing to talk about herself than Ozan. He was the one who'd chosen to adopt her, and yet within a few months Sissel knew more about Jenassa than she did about him.

In fact, what she knew about him was surprisingly little. She knew that he'd been born in Hammerfell, and that he'd been raised to fight, and that he'd had an older sister called Meerah who'd used to tell him stories, and who had been killed by the Thalmor. She knew that he didn't like magic much, but was willing to let her learn about it all the same. She knew that Erandur was his friend – but she had no idea who his other friends were, if he even had any. He sometimes talked about someone called Serana, but if Sissel ever asked to know more about her, Ozan refused to say anything else except that she, like Sissel, was a magic-user.

That was all she knew about him. In fact, she even started writing a list, pressing the piece of parchment in between the pages of one of her magic instruction books to make sure that no one stumbled upon it by accident: 'List Of Things I Don't Know About Ozan.' It was unnervingly long.

Item One: _Who his parents were (or are.)_ He never mentioned them. Meerah, his sister, was the only family member he ever talked about. Maybe he felt the same way about his parents as Sissel had about Lemkil, but all the same, he could just tell her that when she asked, couldn't he?

Item Two: _Why he's living in Skyrim if he comes from Hammerfell._ That wasn't too big a question – if his sister had died back in Hammerfell, then maybe he'd just wanted to get away from the memories. Sissel would understand that. And even if it turned out that he'd just had enough of sand dunes and decided he preferred snow-capped peaks instead, she'd understand that too. The problem was that he never talked about it. Why was it so hard to just talk about it?

Item Three: _What he does all day when he's working and I'm with Erandur and Alesan._ This was the biggest question, the one she put most thought to when she was left alone to think and wonder. She knew that he was an adventurer, he'd told her that, and she had no reason to doubt it. She'd watched from the windows from time to time, as he repelled wolves or even bandits that foolishly decided it would be a good idea to attack their home. Though she'd never been able to get a really good look, it was obvious that he knew how to fight, and he could do it well.

The problem was, when she asked him what he'd been during the day, he would purse his lips and say nothing. Jenassa might say something vague about going to a certain part of the province, but never any details about what they'd done there. Why was he so reluctant to talk about it? If he was an adventurer, if he fought monsters and delved into ancient ruins and uncovered lost secrets… why wouldn't he want to talk about that? Why couldn't he give her stories that she could share with Alesan, so that she could boast about him the way Alesan boasted about Erandur?

There were plenty of other questions on the list. Why wasn't he married to Jenassa? What was his mysterious condition that meant he couldn't have children of his own? Who were the people who had brought him up to fight? Where had he learned to fight dragons? Why did Erandur seem to be his only friend – at least, the only one Sissel had met? Where had he got a magical horse like Shadowmere from?

She put them to him, of course. No answer, never any answer. Just a furrowing of his brows. Sometimes an excuse, or a terse, 'I don't want to talk about.' Sometimes he would change the subject; sometimes Jenassa would change him for him. And always, Sissel was left to wonder.

Eventually, she decided to try a different tactic. If Ozan wouldn't answer any questions she asked him, then maybe someone else would. Her first thought was to try Jenassa, but the Dunmer was so close to Ozan that she had a feeling she'd be reluctant to give away his secrets. So she approached the only other person she knew who seemed to know enough about Ozan.

She waited for a moment when Alesan was out of the room, practicing some apprentice-level Illusion spells in private ('It stresses me out when you two watch!') before turning to the Dunmer. 'Erandur…'

'All right, Sissel?'

'Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I was just wondering something. Well, a lot of somethings. I was thinking maybe you'd be able to tell me.'

The priest laid his book down flat on the table next to him so as not to lose his place, then sat up straight in his seat and nodded to her. 'How can I help?'

Sissel breathed in deeply; she'd decided, when planning this, that she'd start off with the simple questions and work up to the difficult ones. If she started off with the hard ones, Erandur might refuse to answer any of them, but if she began with the ones that weren't so important, she might get some answers, even if he refused to answer any more once she got to the more… sensitive topics. 'Erandur, Ozan never talks much about where he comes from. I mean, I know he comes from Hammerfell, but I don't know anything about his family – except for his sister – and why he isn't still living there.'

Erandur clasped his hands together and let out a long breath. 'I don't think Ozan likes talking about his past very much, Sissel. He has a lot of bad memories, and that's something I understand. Something I respect.' He shook his head slightly. 'All I know is that he was raised by a guild of warriors. He barely knew his parents, and they passed out of his life when he was still a very young child. He's never told me any of the details. As for why he came to live in Skyrim… that's not something I know either, though I think it's something to do with the Thalmor attack on his home, during the war.'

 _That's no good,_ Sissel thought irritably. It was barely more than she'd already known. The warrior guild, and the absence of his parents – that was news. The rest wasn't. So she decided to ask the question she wondered about most of all. 'You know how he and Jenassa go and work when I'm here…'

From the sudden, watchful look that stole over her teacher's face, she knew that he was on his guard. 'Yes?'

'Do you know what he does?'

Erandur sat very still for a moment. Then he bowed his head, sighed, and gave a small sigh. 'Yes, Sissel, I do. I know what Ozan does for a living. I assume you don't.'

'Well, I know he's an adventurer. He told me once about how he kills dragons. But he never says anything about, you know, what he fights and what he does…'

The Dark Elf gave a slow dip of his head. 'Yes, that's true. Look, Sissel, the thing is… Ozan's line of work is something he… Mara's mercy, I don't know how to put it. All I can say is that I know for certain he wouldn't want me to tell you about it.'

Disappointment crashed through Sissel in a thick wave. 'Why not?'

'Well, I don't think I really need to tell you this, but Ozan is an extremely private person. He doesn't like talking about himself.' Erandur brushed his fingers along his beard. 'I think he prefers to let his actions speak for him.'

 _What does that even mean?_ Sissel thought irritably. 'But why doesn't he like talking about himself?'

'For the same reason that you like asking questions.' The Dunmer let out a faint chuckle. 'It's just part of his nature. But it's also because… Azura, it's hard to work out how much I can say. I don't think he'd mind me saying that there are things in his past – and his present, for that matter – that he regrets. He doesn't…' He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck . 'He… he's not proud of a lot of things in his life. Things he's done. Things he still does. He can deal with them, but… I don't think he wants to hurt you by dragging you into them.'

Sissel shook her head; that didn't make anything clearer. 'So he doesn't want me knowing about what he does all day because he doesn't like it? But he's an adventurer. Why wouldn't he like that? Why isn't it something to be proud of?'

'I can't answer that, Sissel. I'm sorry, but I can't.' Erandur picked up his book again. 'May I ask a question of my own?'

'Um. Yes.'

'Why are you asking me this?'

 _Isn't it obvious?_ 'Because Ozan never tells me anything about himself, so I want to know what he won't say.'

'I understand that, but why are you asking _me,_ specifically? Why not him?'

'Because…' Sissel hesitated. 'Because he wouldn't tell me. I've asked him before and he won't say. No reason why it should be different if I asked him again.'

Erandur gave his beard another stroke. 'Yes, well. The truth is, Sissel, I respect Ozan too much to tell you anything that he wouldn't tell you himself. I might not agree with his decision, but he has a right to tell you what he chooses about himself. It'd be a betrayal if I shared his secrets.'

He flipped over a page in his book and flicked his eyes down to it in a way that made it very clear that the conversation was closed. And Sissel sat back with a huff and decided not to press the elf any more. Of course she understood that he didn't want to give away Ozan's secrets, and she respected that, but… it was still irritating.

'If you really want to know these things, I recommend you ask Ozan again.' Erandur didn't look up from his book as he spoke. 'And this time, tell him how much it distresses you that you don't know the answers. He cares about you.'

And Sissel nodded, determining to do just that. She wouldn't wait. She'd ask tonight. And she wouldn't stop asking until she had some answers.

For the rest of the day, she ran the questions through in her head. She rehearsed the exact words. She mouthed them out, tried to imagine what Ozan would say, how he'd try to refuse to answer, and what she could say to stop him from shutting her out. She'd ask when Jenassa was around, too – the Dark Elf might take her side and help her persuade Ozan to speak up.

She thought about nothing else for the rest of the day. As they were riding home, the three of them, the words almost escaped her, but nervousness made her falter at the last second, and she hesitated long enough to decide to wait until they were home. It would be easier to speak when they were inside and sitting down in the warm. So when they were within the walls of Heljarchen Hall again, and the fire was blazing, and their food steaming gently on their plates, Sissel breathed in deeply, set down her cutlery, and looked her foster father in the eye. 'Ozan, what do you and Jenassa do when I'm with Erandur at the temple?'

There was a long silence, as Jenassa held a fork halfway to her mouth and Ozan sat still with his hands resting on the table. Then he gave a small shake of his head. 'We've discussed this before. I can't say.'

'You _can_ say. You just don't want to.' Sissel crossed her arms across her chest. 'I think I've got a right to know.'

'You have a right.' He gave one of his sharp, single nods. 'We often have right to what we can't have.'

Sissel gritted her teeth. 'Look. I live here. I live in your house, I eat your food, I listen to your stories – and I'm grateful for that. I'm really happy here.' That was the truth, and she hoped he could hear how much she meant it. 'But I know practically nothing about you. It just makes me feel a bit…'

She shifted in her seat, unsure of what to say, and she was glad when Jenassa came to her rescue. 'Uneasy, hmm?'

'Yeah. Exactly.'

Jenassa twisted her head around and looked at Ozan, one eyebrow raised. The Redguard shook his head again.

'Zan. She can know some things.'

He bowed his head. 'We work for a guild. They give us tasks. We carry them out.'

Finally, she was getting somewhere. Sissel inched forward in her seat. 'What kind of guild? Is it the same guild that brought you up in Hammerfell – you know, a Skyrim branch of it?'

He shook his head, and, to her relief, didn't ask her how she'd learned about the guild in question.

'Are they the people that taught you to kill dragons?'

Another head-shake.

'What do they send you to do?'

His fingers tightened around his knife and fork, and he made no reply.

'When I first met you, in Rorikstead, you told me that you fought dragons.' Sissel narrowed her eyes. 'If you don't do that with your guild thing, when do you do it? Or were you lying about doing that?'

He looked up sharply, and Sissel could see the hurt in his eyes. 'I do it,' he said quietly.

'We don't do that so much anymore.' Jenassa placed one hand on Ozan's shoulder, as if trying to steady him. Or comfort him. 'Not since we took you in. We used to spend days tracking the beasts across Skyrim, but now we'd feel a little guilty about leaving you alone for so long.'

Sissel's breathing calmed slightly; this made sense, and it was kind of them to stay around Dawnstar for her sake. 'OK. I get it. But what do you do instead?'

'We can't say. We really can't.' Jenassa pursed her lips. 'I know that's a fairly frustrating answer, but it's the truth. In the circumstances.'

She cast a meaningful look at Ozan as she spoke, as if there were more to what she was saying than was obvious, something that Ozan would understand, but Sissel wouldn't. And she certainly didn't understand.

'I just wish you'd tell me things,' she muttered.

'We understand that,' Jenassa said. 'And maybe some day we'll be able to tell you.'

'Is this one of those _we'll tell you when you're older_ things?' Sissel demanded. 'Because Jouane was always doing that, and I always hated it. Is it against the law to be young or something?'

Ozan shook his head. 'No.'

'It's not that we think you're too young to cope with it.' Jenassa was tugging at her hair, something she often did when she was uncomfortable. 'It's just that… well.'

 _It's that you think I'm too young to cope. Which means that whatever it is is something that needs coping with. So it's something they don't think I'd like._

What could Ozan and Jenassa possibly be doing that they thought – or knew, even – that Sissel would feel bad about? Even Erandur didn't seem to agree with whatever it was. He'd said as much. He'd said that Ozan was ashamed of some of the things he'd done, and some of the things he still did.

What were her adopted parents hiding?

Sissel glanced down at her food. She suddenly didn't feel so hungry.

'I'm full,' she said, pushing her pate away.

Ozan's brow furrowed, and he made as if to rise. 'Sissel…'

'I'm going to bed.'

She shoved her chair back and made for the stairs, relieved when neither of them called after her or tried to stop her. All that happened was that Jenassa muttered something to Ozan that she only just caught – 'And she's not even a teenager yet.'

Hidden from their eyes and ears by the walls of her room, Sissel hunted around until she found a quill, an ink bottle, and a clean piece of parchment. It was time to start a new list. _Things I've found out about Ozan._

It didn't surprise her that it turned out shorter than her list of questions. She wrote down what little she knew about his family and his life back in Hammerfell, then scrawled out what Erandur had told her that morning, then finally what Ozan and Jenassa had just told her. It wasn't much. So she turned over the paper and wrote the title of a new list: _Ideas about how I could find out answers to the stuff Ozan won't tell me._

She sucked on the end of the quill for a moment. Right now, she couldn't think of anything to put down.

After a minute or two of thinking offered up no answers, she stuffed the writing equipment back onto the top of her dresser and flopped onto her bed. She'd think about that more some other time.

As she closed her eyes, a new thought occurred to her: did it really matter? Ozan and Jenassa were kind to her. She liked living with them. It was ten times better than the Honourhall, and a million times better than living in Rorikstead with Lemkil and Britte. The fact that Ozan and Jenassa did some things she didn't know about and didn't talk to her about some things didn't change that. Maybe she should just let this go. Maybe it wasn't important, after all.

 _Make up your mind, Sissel,_ she told herself silently. _Keep asking questions, or don't. You've got to pick one or the other._

But in the end, she didn't. She didn't make up her mind.

The dragon made it up for her.

* * *

Summer came, the sun showing enough through the clouds to melt the snow that normally formed a permanent covering over the land around Heljarchen Hall, and finally allowing Sissel to spend as much of the day outside as she'd been able to in Rorikstead. Then, much of her free time, when she hadn't been studying magic, had been spent making her own entertainment on the grasslands around the village. And the area around the hall was a ready-made playground, with its log piles and rocky slopes and open spaces.

Sometimes, she saddled up Cyrus and rode him around the house; she was getting better and better at controlling him every day. Under Ozan's supervision, she'd even managed to canter short distances. And sometimes, her foster parents would join her if she begged them enough, playing tag and hide and seek – though Ozan was nigh-on impossible to find if they played the latter. He made up for being a frustrating playtime partner, though, by bringing her a small wooden dagger and demonstrating how to use it.

It touched her that he treated her like an adult in these lessons. Sissel knew that if she ever had to use a real dagger, it would be because someone was trying to hurt her, and in that situation, there would be no point beating around the bush. 'Go for the parts that'll really hurt them,' Ozan told her simply. 'The eyes, for instance, if you can reach them.'

It was as they were having one of these lessons, with Ozan reaching over to her to adjust her grip on her play-weapon's hilt, that they heard it. The roar. That fierce and terrifying sound, a sound that ordered you to listen, a sound that did not only sound in your ears but resonated through your bones and kicked your heartbeat into a frantic rhythm. It crashed down over the side of the slope that led down to the house, sending birds screeching up from the trees, wings pumping. Cyrus and Enamor let out shrill whinnies from their stable, and Shadowmere reared up on her hind legs. Something about the sharp neighing sound she made sounded like a challenge.

Ozan let go of Sissel's wrist and straightened up. A stillness and tension stole over his body, every muscle going rigid, his jaw clenching. Then he lifted his head to the sky. His lips moved, words Sissel couldn't catch. His eyes flicked from side to side, taking in the expanse of sky above them. And then he let out a soft hiss and reached for his dagger.

'Dragon,' he snarled, and he did not say it in that almost nonchalant way he had when he and Sissel had heard a roar like this back in Rorikstead, when they'd first met. He said it… angrily. There was so much fury behind that one word that Sissel's blood ran cold. Not for her sake. For the sake of the dragon. If it came here… Ozan would kill it. That was a fact.

'Is it close?' she whispered.

He nodded. 'Yes. And coming closer.' Placing one hand on her shoulder, he pulled her – gently, but firmly – towards the house. 'You need to get inside. And stay there.'

Jenassa met them in the entryway, holding Ozan's scimitar in one hand, and his bow and quiver tucked under the other arm. He took them wordlessly and swept up his black jacket-coat from the hook where it hung. 'Jenassa. Get your armour. It's coming here.'

As Jenassa spun around and sped off to obey, Ozan threw on his gear, his movements so swift that Sissel couldn't follow them. In a moment, the scimitar hung at his belt, the bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder, and he was drawing up his hood. He had transformed from a quiet, gentle man who calmly and patiently taught his adopted daughter how to use a wooden dagger to a fighter, a warrior even, a man who was ready to walk out into the open and face down a dragon, and suddenly, Sissel was afraid for him.

'What if it breathes fire?' She tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke, but annoyingly, it insisted on trembling. 'You'll get burned. You'll get killed.'

He shook his head and patted his coat. 'Enchanted. Resists fire and frost.'

'I thought you didn't like magic.'

'Only magic I can't trust.' He bent down and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. 'Sissel. This is hard to ask. But I need you to hide.'

Sissel's first thought was that she wanted to do nothing more than hide. But she quickly realised that wasn't true. She wanted to help – except that she couldn't help. So what she wanted to do was just to watch. To make sure that Ozan and Jenassa were all right. She didn't want them to get hurt. How could she stay inside, away from the fight, not knowing whether they were winning or losing? They could be clawed or burned or bitten or crushed or anything and they'd be on their own. And she wouldn't know.

'I can help,' she protested. 'I can use healing magic –'

' _No.'_ The word was fierce, firm, allowing no argument. 'Can't fight unless I know you're safe.'

The roar sounded again, and this time Sissel didn't need Ozan to tell her that the dragon was coming towards them, because the sound was closer and louder and suddenly all the more chilling.

'Sissel. Please. Stay inside. Basement's safe; even if it burns down the house, it can't reach you inside there. Floors and walls are stone. Won't burn. Trapdoor's enchanted too. Made it to be safe from dragons.'

The basement? That was worse. She wouldn't even be able to hear the fight.

'Please,' Ozan said again, and as if to hurry up her answer, the dragon screeched again.

Sissel swallowed and dipped her head. 'OK.'

'Good. Thank you.'

The sound of feet thumping on the stairs heralded Jenassa's arrival. She was still adjusting the traps on her armour, and she was missing a pauldron, but her face held the same steely determination as Ozan's, and she too had armed herself. 'I'm ready.'

Ozan nodded and turned to the door. 'Let's go.'

He marched out of the house without looking back. Jenassa stopped as she passed Sissel, gave her a small smile and whispered, 'We'll be back,' and hurried after Ozan.

The house was oddly silent once they were gone. Eerily silent. Sissel breathed in deeply and headed towards the basement. She hadn't been down there often. There wasn't much down there, after all; it was a storage area, mostly. But once she was inside, Sissel understood how it was a perfect dragon-proof shelter. It had two rooms, and if she hid inside the second, a dragon probably wouldn't be able to see her, even if it smashed open the trapdoor and stuck its head through the hole – if it would even fit. Even if it tried to breathe fire into the basement, there was nothing that would burn.

Sissel sat down with her back against a wall and tried not to think about what might be happening outside. She couldn't hear anything now, not even the roaring.

What would Ozan and Jenassa be doing? Maybe they would be firing at it from the ground. Maybe they'd be aiming for the eyes, just like Ozan had told Sissel to do with her dagger. Or maybe Ozan would jump onto its head and stab his blade down into its brain. Maybe he'd drink one of his potions, one of the kind that turned you invisible, and wait still and silent until the dragon showed him a weak spot to strike.

Or maybe the dragon would snatch them both up in its jaws and bite the life from their bodies, then torch the house to a cinder.

Sissel jumped her feet. She couldn't do this. She just couldn't. She couldn't sit here, hiding underground, while her foster parents battled a monster from the darkest of legends just outside the walls. She could count the number of people who had been kind to her throughout her entire life on her fingers, and if she lost two of them…

She ran for the ladder. Her fingers slipped on the cool wood as she scrambled up, but she was at the top in what felt like a heartbeat, wrestling the trapdoor open and emerging into the house. To her relief, the walls were as sturdy and firm as they ever had been – the dragon had not set its flame to the house. Not yet, at least.

Her first instinct was to make for the door, but she realised quickly that if she did that, Ozan and Jenassa would see her right away and send her back inside. There was somewhere else from where she could watch the fight – and, if necessary, she might be close enough to it to help.

So she made for the tower instead, hurrying up the stairs and along the landing on the house's second storey, wrenching the door open, clambering up the ladder. This time she was more careful with the trapdoor – if she flung it open, the movement and the noise might attract the dragon's attention, and she didn't fancy having an enraged giant lizard noticing that she was there. So she inched it open, bit by bit. A blast of cold air struck her in the face as she lifted it – followed a moment later by noise.

Roaring. More roaring, but different now. The roars they had heard before had sounded like challenges. They had been somehow… proud. But there was nothing dignified about the sounds crashing through the air now. They were pure anger. She'd heard sounds like them before – they had the same kind of fury and bitterness behind them that had been behind the grunts and shouts Lemkil had made whenever he swung a fist her way. _I have a right to hurt you,_ was what those sounds said. _You have no right to defy me._

She didn't know how she knew that. She just knew. She knew what that dragon meant as it screeched. Of course she didn't know what it was saying. Ozan had told her that dragons had their own language, but Sissel had no idea how to speak it or understand it. But somehow she knew what the dragon was feeling, and it scared her.

The roars weren't the only sounds, though. Here and there, she heard faint clacks that might be the sounds of blades or arrows deflecting off scales, and sweeping noises that were, perhaps, caused by the dragon's tail whipping up the snow. No wingbeats, though. A dragon's wings must make a heavy beating sound, one that she'd be able to hear from where she was, so if she couldn't heart any, then it must be on the ground right now.

She pushed the trapdoor open the last few centimetres, and waited a few moments. When no winged, scaled monstrosity threw itself in her direction, she sucked in a breath and pulled herself up into the open.

Sissel stood up straight on the tower top and looked out over the roof of the house to the open area in front of its doors. And she knew instantly that what she saw there was something she would never forget, no matter how long she lived. You didn't forget a sight like this. You couldn't.

The dragon was crouching at the foot of the slope. It wasn't like she had imagined it would be. She hadn't expected a kindly-faced grey dragon like the one from her dream (she still had it, some nights), but nor had she been expecting a silvery-white creature with rows of spikes as long as her legs running from its head to its tail-tip. She just hadn't imagined dragons could look like that. Nor had she ever imagined that they could be so… beautiful.

The way its neck and tail curved, sinuous and powerful. Like the flow of a river over rapids. The sharp contrast of pale scales and black spines. The undeniable intelligence on its face. This was no mindless beast, like the troll that Erandur had fought off in Alesan's story. This was… it seemed impossible, but this was a _person._

But it was also dangerous. That graceful curving neck was twisting around to face Ozan, who stood some distance away, scimitar in one hand, dagger in the other. Its teeth were bared, and its eyes were narrowed. And yet… even though it was an enormous monster, and Ozan and Jenassa were just mortals, Sissel realised instantly that it was coming off worse in the fight. There were arrows embedded up to the fletching in its wing joints, and there was a gash under one eye, where a blow from Ozan's blade, perhaps, had split open the scales and pierced the flesh. There were streaks of crimson over those snow-coloured scales.

And from the way Ozan and Jenassa circled it, weapons raised and faces utterly unafraid, Sissel knew that they had no intention of losing this fight. Her breath caught in her throat. How could she ever have thought that Ozan was lying about fighting dragons?

The dragon moved suddenly, its neck jerking back and its mouth opening wide. A new sound split the air – at first, Sissel thought it was just another screech, but then it took on a form, the bellowing noise twisting itself into nouns and consonants. Words.

' _FO KRAH DIIN!'_

When she saw its mouth convulse, as if it were spitting something out from the depths of its throat, she expected fire. But what lanced from its maw was ice. As if it had swallowed a blizzard and was now spewing it forth, giving it direction and deadly purpose. The ice torrent shot towards Ozan – but Ozan was no longer there. He'd moved, moved faster than the eye could follow. The black blur that was all Sissel could really see of him threw itself down and to the side, and the ice swept over it.

The dragon's teeth snapped, and its tail lashed from side to side like a cat's. It seemed infuriated that it had missed. The wings swept up and pushed down. For a moment, Sissel stared, some part of her unable to believe that just those wings could lift such a huge bulk off the ground. And then her mouth dropped open as they did just that. If it had seemed graceful on the ground, it was a hundred times more so in the air. Sissel crouched low, pleading under her breath with the Divines to not let it see her.

Ozan strode forwards. His weapons were lowered, and his eyes were fixed on the rising dragon. Even from a distance, Sissel could see his mouth open. And he… shouted. Except it wasn't a shout. It was a roar. A roar that formed itself into words, just as the dragon's had.

' _Joor ZAH FRUL!'_

Blue light shot forward from all around him, and the dragon let out a howl. It was a sound that expressed a fear and horror so fierce that Sissel felt goosebumps break out over her skin. More light, the same shade as the shockwave that had flown out from Ozan, settled itself around the dragon's wings and back, almost as if it were pushing the dragon down to earth. And the dragon was certainly dropping, as if it had forgotten how to use its wings. It was shaking its head in an odd, desperate way, and when it hit the ground, it was no longer the unstoppable predator. It was… backing away.

Ozan shoved his scimitar back into the loop at his belt that held it, and transferred his dagger – the short one with the sleek, almost evil-looking spurs on either side of the blade – into his right hand. Then he started to run – not away from the dragon, but towards it. It raised its head and bared its teeth, but Jenassa loosed an arrow that forced it to turn its head to the side or risk taking the shaft through the eye. And as it turned to avoid the arrow, Ozan leaped. His feet powered him up and away from the ground. For a moment, he hung in the air. Then he dropped down onto the dragon's head.

Sissel forgot about staying low. She leaped to her feet and grasped the edge of the railing around the tower. She wanted to see this. She had to see it. Her foster father had landed smoothly, and now he was seizing one of the dragon's horns with his free hand to keep himself steady. With the other, he was raising his dagger high. Ready to bring it down. To make the kill.

The dragon's muscles tensed suddenly, and with a terrifying certainly, Sissel knew exactly what was going to happen before it did. She sucked in air to shout out a warning, but the dragon was already rolling, flipping itself over and onto its back in a tangle of wings and limbs. There was no question of Ozan staying on its head, nor was there any chance that he would finish the strike. In a moment, he was on the ground. And then the dragon rolled back onto its feet.

In books, Sissel had read about people watching terrible things happening suddenly seeing in slow motion. Now, she started to understand why they said that. Things didn't slow down, but her brain was working at twice the normal speed, and everything else seemed slow. Her first thought was that Ozan was lying helpless. The second was that Jenassa, still nocking an arrow to her bow, wouldn't be able to fire before the dragon attacked. The third was that Ozan would die unless someone helped. The fourth was that Erandur had just finished teaching her long-range fire spells.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't think twice about what she was doing. She simply curled her fingers inward and reached for the spark of power inside her. Found it. And released it. The fire lit in her palm, and she threw her arm outwards, towards that beautiful yet deadly creature that was drawing its head back to kill her foster father.

The firebolt left her hand with an angry hiss, snapped through the air like an arrow, and struck the dragon directly over its eye.

Time snapped back to its normal rate as the dragon reared up, threw out its wings, tipped back its head, and _screamed._ Sissel's throat ran dry. Had she just done that? Had she fired a spell – a _Destruction_ spell – at another living being? Had she _hit?_

She saw Jenassa's head snap around to face her, and heard the Dunmer's voice call her name in tones of mixed shock and fear. Ozan, however, made no sound. He leaped back onto his feet, snatched up his dagger, and crouched like a cat about to pounce. And as the dragon dropped back down, he simply lifted his hand – and the weapon it held - above his head.

The dragon brought its neck down, and the dagger went right through its throat.

Ozan left the blade there for no more than a second before wrenching it out and rolling to the side. An instant later, the dragon crashed to the ground. That one blow, struck in the right place, was enough. Its tail whipped back and forth, and its legs twitched. And then its movements grew weaker, and weaker, and weaker still, and finally stopped.

Sissel breathed in deeply, preparing herself to run outside to join Ozan and Jenassa and receive a scolding for not obeying them. But then something happened that made her hesitate. The dragon had stopped moving, but… there was movement around its body. Sparks of light and... fire.

Ozan knelt down and placed one hand on the dragon's neck. And as he did so, that huge, white-scaled body began to burn. Fire was licking over it, from tail-tip to the end of its nose, but though it washed over Ozan's hand, it did not seem to hurt him. And as the dragon's body burned, it seemed to fragment. Scales and claws and bits of the wing membrane were floating upwards, glowing red and gold, and vanishing into the flames, leaving nothing but bones behind them.

And then the strands of light began to flow forward from the depths of the fire. The flames were spreading now, over the entirety of the body, and just as the last scale was stripped away, the thin white threads, glowing like stars, wove up through the air.

Ozan, still kneeling, bowed his head. He stayed very still as the light neared him. And as it touched him – disappeared _inside_ him – he still did not move. Not until the light was gone, and the dragon was nothing but a bare skeleton, did he stir. He shuddered, ever so slightly, and clambered to his feet.

Everything was very still for a moment. Sissel's mouth was dry.

She knew the stories. She'd heard the rumours. But she'd never imagined…

She flung the trapdoor back open and sped down the ladder. Her heart was thumping, her mind was whirling, and her limbs couldn't move fast enough. She heard the front door open, and the sound of feet, and quickened her pace. She reached the top of the stairs just as Ozan and Jenassa reached the bottom, and stopped running.

'You're the Dragonborn,' she burst out, as he reached the landing.

He looked at her, and did not answer.

'We told you to stay inside!' Jenassa snapped.

Sissel didn't look at her. Her eyes were fixed on Ozan, who stood gazing wordlessly back at her.

'You're the Dragonborn,' she repeated. 'Why didn't you _tell_ me?'

He opened his mouth, licked his lips, and stood motionless for a moment more before speaking. 'Sissel…'

'You never tell me _anything!'_ Sissel gritted her teeth together. He couldn't do this. He couldn't just leave her in the dark about everything and accept her to just accept it. 'You keep saying I'm too young or that you can't tell me and you just let me wonder about it. And now I find out I've been living for months in the same house as the Dragonborn. When were you planning to tell me that?'

He dropped his eyes away. 'I would have.'

'When I was old enough to take it? Why don't I have a right to know? What gives you a right to lie to me?'

'We have not been lying to you.' Jenassa stepped forward to stand at Ozan's side. 'We've been trying to do what's best.'

'How is this what's best?'

The Dunmer's eyes narrowed. 'Have you considered that it's not something Ozan wants people to know about?'

'Why not? The Dragonborn's a hero. _You're_ a hero.' Sissel shook her head, bewildered. 'You killed Alduin. You saved the whole world. Why wouldn't you want people to know?'

The Redguard closed his eyes. 'Same reason I don't like talking.'

Sissel hadn't intended to get angry. But suddenly, she was, and she couldn't help it. 'Because you don't want people to know you? Because you just don't like people? Why do you only care about what you want? What about me? How am I supposed to feel safe living here when I don't know who you are?'

Jenassa's jaw clenched. 'This isn't about you, Sissel!'

' _Then why am I here?'_

The sound of her shout echoed away into complete silence. Sissel glared up at them. They stared back. Jenassa's eyes were wide with shock. Ozan looked as if she'd slapped him.

Sissel couldn't look at them any more. She spun around, marched into her room, and slammed the door with all the force she could muster.

She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew that what she'd just said was hurtful and wrong. But it had come out, it had been said, and there was no taking it back. No going back to where they'd been ten minutes ago.

When the white dragon landed outside the hall, it had set changes into motion. And now, Sissel had made her choice.

* * *

 **Because I can't write a Skyrim story without throwing a dragon battle in there somewhere...**

 **I have an announcement to make, and it's not going to be a very welcome one. My exams are approaching, and they're pretty important. I've been trying to set time out every day to write, but as I get ever more stressed out, I don't think I can expend brain energy on writing unless I'm feeling inspired – so I'm going to be writing rather more intermittently, so updates are going to be slower. I'm really sorry, but rest assured the story will continue to be updated, just not at the fastest pace. Please bear with me!**

 **I'm going to be spending much of the next few weeks revising, but in my spare time, I will still be working on this, and I hope you enjoy what's still to come. Thanks for reading. :)**


	6. Blood Price

**I'm back! No, the exams are not over, and they won't be for a while, but I'm on top of my revision (I hope) and I've got time to get back into my writing schedule again. Sorry for the long wait - but here at last is the chapter!**

* * *

CHAPTER SIX – BLOOD PRICE

It took only about five minutes for Sissel to start feeling guilty about what she'd said. It took ten minutes for her decide that she needed to apologise. It took fifteen minutes for her to realise she didn't know how.

So she said nothing, and the longer she waited, the harder it became.

No one said anything about it. It was as if the period of time from the dragon's first roar to Sissel's slamming the door to her room had never happened. But it was still there, always lurking in a corner. Jouane would have described it as the mammoth in the room. Sissel did not apologise. Ozan did not offer any explanations. Neither did he thank her for saving his life, which Sissel was more put out about, perhaps, than anything else, though she never mentioned it.

Something had changed. The atmosphere was different. More uneasy.

It wouldn't be that way, Sissel told herself again and again, if he would just explain things to her. But the days went by, and he didn't explain, and he still didn't. Which led to Sissel making a decision: if he wasn't going to tell her these things, then she'd just find them out herself.

She wrote down her plan for how to find out only two days after the white dragon incident. But it was two months before she had a chance to put it into action. After all, it depended on a lot of things. It depended on there being a day when Ozan and Jenassa took her up to the door of Erandur's temple and saw her inside, but when Erandur did not hear her come in. But that day came eventually, a day when, after the door closed after her, there was no hurrying of feet up the steps to meet her. She breathed in deeply, waited a few minutes, then quietly pushed the door open again.

Outside, she found that she'd been given another stroke of luck: it was snowing. Not so heavily that she wouldn't be able to see where she was going, but the flakes were coming down thick enough that they would cover the hoofprints that had been left in the snow within an hour. If Erandur or Alesan happened to leave the temple – which they were unlikely to do so early in the morning – they would not know that her family had even been there. She didn't come to the temple every day; they'd just assume that this was one of those days when she stayed at home with Ozan and Jenassa.

It was somewhat thrilling, climbing up onto Cyrus's back and urging him away from the temple and back down the hill towards Dawnstar. It was probably the first time in her life when no one had known where she was or what she was doing. In Rorikstead, she was always guaranteed to be somewhere within the boundaries of the village. Constance had always kept tabs on the children at the Honourhall. After she'd been adopted, she'd always either been under the eye of either Ozan and Jenassa or Erandur. But now, Erandur thought she was with her foster parents, and they thought she was with Erandur. She'd vanished from the awareness of the adults who looked after her, and it was oddly exhilarating.

Also rather frightening. But she gritted her teeth and spurred Cyrus off into the snow. She wasn't all that far away from her twelfth birthday. She could use magic. She'd helped kill a dragon. She was a strong Nord girl and she was _not_ going to be afraid. She was going to ride after Ozan and Jenassa and see where they went. It wouldn't be easy, she knew that. She'd have to stay far enough behind them that they wouldn't hear Cyrus's hooves. But as long as she kept just out of sight, she reckoned, it would be OK. They wouldn't see her, and she could follow their hoofprints.

Their trail led back through Dawnstar. Sissel pulled up her hood and rode quickly, so that it was less likely that any of the townspeople would recognise her. She doubted they'd care if they did recognise her, but still, when you were doing something that was very definitely against the rules… you didn't want too many people to know about it.

She rode fast enough that she was just able to catch sight of them turning to the north. She reigned Cyrus to a halt and waited until she couldn't see them any more before hurrying off again in the direction they'd taken. The hoofprints from Shadowmere and Enamor led on for about ten or so minutes more – and then Sissel drew Cyrus to stop abruptly when she spotted both horses not far away. Both were riderless, and Enamor was tethered loosely to a nearby tree. Shadowmere was left free, as always, and she was nosing at the snow, probably trying to get at any grass underneath. She lifted her head as Sissel approached and let out a sharp whinny. Almost an angry one.

Cyrus was a fairly lazy animal when he wasn't being actively spurred into movement, so Sissel felt safe dismounting and leaving him to browse on a bush as she approached the other horses. Shadowmere neighed again and trotted forwards, planting herself in Sissel's path. Frowning, Sissel took a few steps back and glanced from side to side. She could just about make out the imprints of her adopted parents' boots in the snow. Their trail led down a slope, to where a wall of rock formed a small cliff – though it wasn't easy to follow, since Shadowmere kept trying to grab her clothes in her teeth and pull her away. The black mare always seemed to stop short of actually hurting Sissel, though, so after a few minutes' dodging, she reached the end of the trail. And she stood looking in bewilderment at where it ended.

A door. A small door, with a clump of nightshade flowers near its base. A door with a frankly rather gruesome design sculpted into its surface – a skeleton, and a skull with a dark red handprint over its forehead.

Sissel swallowed. It was obvious that Ozan and Jenassa had gone inside here – and she somehow didn't think that any place that decorated its door with skulls couldn't be particularly friendly. Why would they go inside such a place? She stretched out a hand, and very slowly extended it so that her fingers brushed against the stone. And instantly leaped back as a voice – a _voice,_ a low, echoing voice – emanated from behind it. No. From the actual door.

' _What is life's greatest illusion?'_

Sissel stared. 'What?'

There was a short silence.

' _You are not worthy.'_

Sissel kept staring.

'Um. OK then.'

The door made no reply, so Sissel tentatively placed her hand on the surface again.

' _What is life's greatest illusion?'_

This time, Sissel tried to put her mind to the question. It sounded like some kind of riddle, though in her experience riddles had more clues in them. How were you supposed to guess the answer to such a short riddle?

Or maybe that was the point. Maybe it was hard on purpose. Maybe the idea was that it was the kind of answer you'd never be able to guess. Maybe you had to already know the answer to the question to get inside.

She'd guess anyway, she decided. 'Um. Happiness? Or death? Or –'

' _You are not worthy.'_

Sissel shrugged. 'Fine. Sorry.'

She retreated back to where she'd left Cyrus. There was obviously no point trying to get inside, so she'd wait. Ozan and Jenassa had to come out eventually. Unless they stayed in there all day, in which case she'd be pretty cold and tired by the time they showed up. And then there was the problem that if they did stay inside all day, when they came out, they'd go to collect her at the temple. Where she would emphatically not be.

She'd messed up. She had to admit it. She'd assumed they'd be going somewhere… well, where she could watch them and see what they did. But now she was either going to have to risk waiting, or she would have to go straight back to the temple and give up on trying to find the answers.

Sighing, she reached up to stroke Cyrus's nose. 'What do you think, boy?'

The horse whickered faintly and snatched another mouthful of leaves from the bush.

'It's all right for you, isn't it? All you need to worry about is having food and a warm stable.' Sissel shook her head. 'Do horses really care about family? I expect you were taken away from yours when you were still a foal. No need for you to worry about them keeping secrets from you. If horses even understand secrets.'

There was a conveniently-placed rock not far away, so Sissel pulled her sleeves up over her hands, brushed the snow off its surface, and sat down to think. The best course of action, perhaps, was to wait for as long as she could bear waiting before she got too cold or bored, then to head back to the temple. And if Ozan and Jenassa turned up before that time… well, she'd follow them and see what happened. Which meant getting out of sight for now, in case they emerged from behind that peculiar skull-door any time soon.

Sissel grabbed Cyrus's bridle and – with some difficulty, since he'd grown rather attached to that bush – dragged him farther off, until they were out of sight of the entrance, in amongst a clump of trees. The black shape that was Shadowmere was somewhat visible through the dark trunks, but no one would spot Cyrus – or herself, for that matter – unless actually looking. Sissel found herself another rock and, seating herself upon it, prepared herself for the wait.

So she was surprised when said wait only lasted about thirty seconds. Shadowmere let out a whinny, and a moment later, figures became visible up ahead. It wasn't hard to recognise the outlines of her foster parents, especially since Ozan was probably the only man in the world who wore a hood up on a completely rain-free, snow-free day.

Sissel's breath caught in her throat when Shadowmere tossed her head in Sissel's direction and made as if to trot over to her, but Ozan caught her bridle, muttered something, and pulled himself up onto her back before she could move. Sissel let out the breath. Shadowmere would have shown Ozan that he was being spied on, that much was obvious.

'She's a lot smarter than you, Cyrus,' she whispered.

Cyrus blinked blankly up at her, and grabbed another mouthful of pine needles.

She left it about thirty seconds before clambering up onto his back – with considerably less grace than Ozan always had when he did this with Shadowmere – and urging him in the direction Ozan and Jenassa had taken. Their path was clear enough to follow, even though they were out of both sight and earshot – two horses left plenty of evidence in the snow. Though Cyrus was considerably slower than Shadowmere and Enamor, and Sissel was still a little nervous about cantering for too long, she was fairly certain that she could follow them to wherever they were going.

 _Maybe the place behind the door is the place their guild thing lives,_ she thought. _And now they've been given a job to do and they're going to do it._ Perhaps the whole reason they lived in the Pale was so they could ride here every morning. Just so long as whatever they were going to do wasn't too far away.

They were heading straight south now; focusing hard, Sissel conjured up a mental image of the maps of Skyrim she'd studied with Erandur. If they continued on this path, they'd cross the Pale, just as they did every morning. In fact, they seemed to be heading for the same route they always took to go to and from the town. That was a comfort – if she was out in the wilderness without anyone knowing she was there, it was nice to be in a place she more-or-less knew. But what if they kept going, past the borders of the Pale and into unfamiliar territory? How far might they be planning to ride? Did she even have the energy to follow them that far? For an activity that appeared to be just sitting on an animal's back, riding was more than a little exhausting.

It wasn't long before the inevitable started to happen; Cyrus began to flag. His canter slowed, often dropping back into a trot, his sides heaving. Sissel gritted her teeth – she should have realised that over a long stretch, her plump pony would never be able to keep up with a creature like Shadowmere. The worst part was that now they were on the road, the tracks were harder to follow. She might miss them if they left the path at any point. And if they kept going south, towards the Whiterun tundra, then… well, she'd never be able to track them over grass.

 _This was a really bad idea,_ she told herself, biting her lip.

She tugged at Cyrus's reins until he stopped. She had to admit defeat – she hadn't thought this plan through. Not enough. Wherever Ozan and Jenassa were going, it wasn't somewhere she and Cyrus were going to be able to follow. She'd spent hours out in the cold for nothing. All she had was more questions.

Sissel slammed a hand down on the pommel of her saddle. It was hard not to be angry. The anger was directed at her foster parents, a little, but mostly she was angry with herself. How could it not have occurred to her that Cyrus wouldn't be able to keep up?

She'd have to go back. In a way, it was fortunate that Cyrus's energy had run out here – she could still find the way back to Dawnstar, and make an excuse to Erandur. She could think of a plausible reason for her lateness on the way. With any luck, Ozan and Jenassa would never know about her failed attempt to spy on them. And she would just have to live with her questions unanswered.

Unless…

Sissel pursed her lips together. Maybe there was an alternative to going back to the temple. Maybe she could try to find her answers by another strategy. She wasn't far from the Whiterun border – which meant she wasn't far away from Heljarchen Hall. And while she knew the house well, while she had free run of its rooms and corridors, there was one place she went little, simply because it held nothing that could interest her. Namely, her adopted parents' room. She'd seen inside, of course, but it seemed to contain – other than the obvious, such as a bed, cupboards and so on – only a few small strongboxes and cabinets on shelves.

She'd never thought to look inside them, or even ask what they contained. Was it possible that they might hold a clue to Ozan's identity? They would probably be locked, she knew, but it was worth a try. She wouldn't feel safe rummaging around inside Ozan's room while he or Jenassa were home. She knew enough about them to know they wouldn't appreciate her delving through their possessions – they were too private. If she had an opportunity, she had to take it. Even if she failed and had to go back to Dawnstar empty-handed.

Clicking her tongue to Cyrus, she dug her heels into the pony's sides, and set him moving in the direction of her home.

It wasn't a long ride, even with Cyrus moving at an increasingly slower pace. Sissel deposited him in his stable and dug the key to the house from her pocket. Ozan and Jenassa had had it forged for her in case of emergencies, and it made her feel a twinge of guilt that she was using it for a purpose that they definitely wouldn't approve of. Mentally, she pushed the guilt away. It wasn't her fault. If Ozan would just talk to her, she wouldn't need to be doing this.

Sissel locked the door after herself, just in case, and hurried inside. She took the stairs to Ozan's room two at a time – she strongly doubted he would be returning any time soon, but all the same, some instinct told her to move quickly and quietly. She remembered how Jouane had once told her that some priests and scholars believed that if you felt guilty about something, even if there was no one around to see you, it was because the Divines were watching, and the guilt was their way of telling you that what you were doing was wrong. She swallowed hard. Maybe he was right.

She looked up at those cabinets that might or might not contain the truth about her foster father. She could probably reach them, if she climbed onto the dresser and stood on tiptoe. If they weren't locked, she might find her answers there.

But should she? Maybe that was the real question here.

She imagined the Divines watching her from Aetherius, watching with cold frowns and disapproving gazes. And they were right to disapprove. She knew what she was doing was wrong.

Yes, Ozan kept secrets from her. But he would be heartbroken if he knew she was snooping around his room, trying to unearth his secrets. He was so quiet, so… withdrawn. As if he'd retreated into himself, the way those animals in the southern provinces – what were they called? Tortoises? – pulled their limbs and heads into their shells to ward off predators.

Perhaps he didn't talk about these things because they hurt. Perhaps he had a right not to tell her. Perhaps she should give him another chance.

Secrets or no, this was still the man who'd stopped his journey to give her a healing potion back in Rorikstead when they'd been complete strangers. This was the man who'd taken her in for no reason other than simple kindness. This was the man who told her stories at night, and had bought her a pony, and taught her how to use a dagger.

If Ozan had done all of that… how bad could his secrets be?

Suddenly disgusted at herself, Sissel stepped away from the shelves. The girl she'd once been, back when she lived in Rorikstead, would never have done this. But then, she'd been a different person back then. She'd been living under the threat of her father's fist and she'd been scared, constantly scared. Now she lived with Ozan, that fear was gone. This new life without fear had given her freedoms, and now she was taking those freedoms too far.

'No,' she whispered. Maybe she was talking to herself, maybe she was reassuring the Divines; she wasn't sure. 'I won't do it.'

She'd just ask him. Quietly. Calmly. Without getting angry. She'd just keep trying. She wouldn't hurt him, not Ozan, who'd done so much for her.

It was hard not to feel proud of herself as she made her way back down the stairs. This was the right thing to do, she was certain that it was. Maybe this warm feeling spreading through her was the Divines' way of making sure she knew it.

She unlocked the door, stepped through it into the cold outside, and stopped dead.

There was a line of men standing outside the house. Every one of them held a weapon. And every one of those weapons was trained on her.

Sissel felt the key slip through her fingers and fall with a soft crunch into the snow. There was a sudden, sickening feeling in her stomach, the kind of ill feeling that came with raw, powerful fear. She knew it all too well from all the times her father had made her feel it. She'd grown used to living without it. Ozan never made her feel it.

These people did. There were seven or eight of them – if she hadn't been frozen to the spot, she would have turned her head to count them. Mostly Nords. A Redguard. An Orc. A woman whose face was hidden behind the visor of her helmet. She was the only one who wore real armour - the rest wore gear cobbled together from hide, fur and sections of metal plating. Some faces were painted, others smeared with dirt. Dents peppered the blades of their swords, and their arrow fletchings were grubby and battered. Nothing like Ozan's neat gear. But a blow from one of those swords, Sissel knew, would kill her as easily as a strike from Ozan's dagger.

'This the one?' It was one of the Nords who spoke, a man as broad-shouldered and powerfully built as Erik from Rorikstead. But he did not have Erik's warm smile or kindly eyes. That was a wolf's smile. Those were a serpent's hungry eyes.

The helmeted woman marched forward, her sword dangling casually from her hand. She wasn't holding it firmly, Sissel realised, because she didn't think there was any need to. _She doesn't think I could fight back._

The realisation snapped her to her senses, and the frozen feeling in her limbs died. Sissel lunged for her dagger, her fingers grasping the hilt and pulling the blade free. She reached inside herself for the spark of magic, found it, urged it into life, and flames leaped into being around the fingers of her left hand.

'Get back!' She knew that in her high voice, the words sounded small and harmless. But all the same, the woman stopped walking towards her, and her grip on her sword tightened.

There was a short silence, as Sissel wondered if she could launch the spell at one of them, make an opening, and run to Cyrus's stable. Maybe she'd be able to stir him out fast enough. Maybe these people, these bandits, wouldn't shoot them as they ran. Maybe they'd make it to safety.

That was a lot of maybes. Too many.

'Put those flames away, girl.' The woman in the helmet folded her arms across her chest. 'You come along with us quietly, and this doesn't have to end with anyone getting hurt.'

Sissel tried to reply, found that her throat was too dry, swallowed, and tried again. 'I don't believe you.'

'Believe it or not, we don't stand to gain from killing a kid.' The woman kicked carelessly at the snow; Sissel stood motionless as the flakes spattered down her skirt. 'But if we take her alive, and make sure her parents pay to get her back… then it's drinks all around.'

Relief sparked in Sissel's heart, and she instantly hated herself for it. Of course it was a good thing that they didn't plan to kill her. But they were using her against Ozan. And it was her fault, because she'd been stupid and selfish and she'd come here alone.

'He asked for it, you know, building his home out here, away from the guards,' the woman continued. 'Have you any idea how long we've been waiting for you to be here on your own? We'd have settled for that greyskin wife of his, but –'

'She's a Dunmer,' Sissel snapped. 'You're not supposed to call them greyskins, it's rude. And she's actually not his wife. And she'd have killed you if you tried.'

The woman shrugged. 'Better for all of us that we've got you instead, then, right? Cut out the magic and come along.'

'Ozan won't pay you.' Sissel tightened her grip on her dagger. 'He'll come to find you and he'll kill you.'

It was true; she was certain of it. Ozan would kill these people, the same way he'd kill a wolf or sabre cat that happened to stumble upon the house. He'd kill them to make sure they could never be a threat again. Gods, were these people stupid? Didn't they know who Ozan _was?_

'All eight of us? Forgive me if I don't believe you. I don't think we need to be afraid of a –'

Sissel let her spell fly. She directed it at the leftmost bandit, the Orc, and even as the flames left her fingers, she started to run.

The firebolt struck the man on the shoulder, sending fire pouring over his dark green skin. He screamed, dropped his battleaxe, and clasped both hands to the wound. So he had no free hands to grasp Sissel as she darted past him and sped for the stable. She knew they were giving chase from the sudden crunch of snow beneath boots and threw another spell over her shoulder. Glancing behind her, she saw them scatter and draw back as it ploughed into the snow, sending up a small explosion of steam.

 _They're cowards,_ Sissel realised, and the new knowledge lent her strength. Strength enough to put on an extra burst of speed, to reach the stable, dart inside – thank all the Gods who'd ever been that she hadn't shut and bolted the door – and grasp Cyrus's reins before they could catch up with her.

One of the Nord men had reached the stable door by the time she'd pulled herself up and onto Cyrus's back. Without hesitation, she curled her fingers around another firebolt and launched it at the man's arm. Ozan had told her once that the moment someone drew a weapon on you, they were giving you permission to kill them. They were showing that they were willing to take your life, and that meant you had a right to take theirs in order to stop them. But Sissel didn't think she could kill these people. The thought of them having life, being thinking, feeling creatures, and then suddenly having all of that _stop_ because of her – no. She couldn't do it.

But the firebolt hit home, striking the man around his elbow and making him real back with a howl, and the path out of the stable was clear. Even if she couldn't kill, she could wound, she could distract. Just as she had with that dragon. If she'd helped Ozan kill a dragon, then these people were nothing.

At least, they should be. But for some reason Sissel was more frightened of them than she'd been of the white dragon.

There was one thing that she didn't have to worry about, and that was getting Cyrus to move. For once, the lethargic pony was moving when she wanted him to – and a little faster than she really felt safe with. The flare of flame had spurred him into movement – no animal, Sissel guessed, wanted to be around fire – and now he was cantering forwards, paying no heed to Sissel's yankings on his reins, head down and ears flat back against his head. The bandits leaped to the side to avoid him, and he charged through the middle of them.

Sissel sucked in a few deep breaths and made a renewed attempt to set Cyrus moving towards the road. He tossed his head, whipping the reins through her fingers, and Sissel yelped with pain as the leather sheared off a thin layer of skin. Forcing herself to ignore the pain, she threw all her strength behind turning him towards the path to Dawnstar. He had to listen, he had to get away from these bandits, or they were both dead –

From behind her, there was a faint _twang_ sound, and a rush of air. And a moment later, Cyrus made a shrieking, screaming sound and bucked like a ship in a storm as an arrow embedded itself in his rear.

Sissel cried out and grasped his neck, trying to wrap her arms around him to keep herself steady, but Cyrus was kicking and writhing like a thing demented. In a second, her feet were shaken from the stirrups. She felt herself slipping from the saddle and grabbed at the pommel to pull herself back. For a moment, it seemed that she might manage it – and then another arrow struck him in the leg, and he catapulted himself into movement again. A flat-out gallop. And any chance Sissel had had of staying on his back vanished. It was too much movement, too fast, too soon.

Her fingers slipped, her balance was broken, and she toppled sideways out of the saddle.

A flash of memory from her lessons, the sound of Ozan's voice telling her to keep her limbs tucked in if she ever fell, pushed itself to the forefront of her mind, and in the heartbeat before she hit the ground, Sissel grappled with the instinct that told her to hold out her arms to break her fall. All she'd break was her bones, she knew that, and to her relief, she managed to fight the instinct away. She hit the ground side-first, the snow providing a cushioned landing, if a somewhat cold welcome.

Breathing hard, she lifted her head. Cyrus was still galloping away from her, half-hidden by a cloud of snow thrown up by his pounding hooves.

Sissel felt a new kind of coldness inside her, a coldness that had nothing to do with the snow. She'd tried, she'd tried so hard, but she'd lost. Cyrus was gone. Her escape route was galloping madly in the general direction of Whiterun and there was no way she'd ever catch him up.

She bit her lip and pushed herself up into a sitting position. She'd always tried so hard to be brave when her father directed his rage at her. She'd been brave when the white dragon had tried to kill Ozan. She could be brave again.

As the bandits advanced, she made a show of very carefully checking herself for injuries, as if she couldn't see her enemies at all. When she was certain that she hadn't damaged anything, apart from a few bruised patches of skin, maybe, she stood up, and deliberately didn't look at the bandits, instead turning her attention to brushing the snow from her clothes. Then she folded her arms and watched them walk the final distance between them.

The helmeted woman was the first to reach her. Sissel looked up at her and raised her eyebrows. 'So where are we going?'

The woman's lip curled, and her hand flashed out. It was a movement Sissel had seen a million times before, and she knew how to react. She offered no resistance as the woman's hand crashed into the side of her face, letting the momentum of the blow knock her back down into the snow. Lemkil had unintentionally taught her long ago that if an adult struck you, you shouldn't fight back. Defiance just made them angry. Fall and look defeated and they'd think they'd won.

Sissel pressed a hand to her cheek, and as she brought it away, her breath trembled in her throat as she saw a streak of blood on her fingers. The woman's gauntlets must have broken her skin. Still, while the cut stung, it was a pain of a kind she was used to. _Lemkil hit a lot harder than that._

'Get up,' the woman snapped.

Sissel resisted the urge to reply that if the woman had wanted her standing, she shouldn't have hit her, and complied.

'Nurmat, Gorvan. Get some healing potions and fix those burns.' The woman snapped her fingers at the Orc and the Nord who'd been on the receiving end of Sissel's magic. 'Kandja, I want this brat's wrists bound. I'm not having her flinging any more spells around.'

One of the Nords, a black-haired woman, looked at the woman with the steel armour, her head tilted to one side. 'But, Rochelle… couldn't she just burn through the ropes?'

 _I hadn't thought of that. Thanks for the idea._

'Fine, leave it, then. It's not as if she's going anywhere.' The woman's hand flashed forward, seizing the neck of Sissel's shirt and yanking her forward, almost entirely off the ground. 'You hear that? You try to fight, you're getting hurt. You try to run, you're getting hurt.'

She let Sissel drop, and beckoned one of the other bandits forward, the Redguard. 'Zehra, keep your blade on the girl. Yulaf, help keep an eye on her. The rest of you, with me. We're looting the house.'

'No!' Sissel's hands balled into fists. 'You can't take Ozan's things, he –'

The Redguard pulled out a short sword – a straight one not curved like Ozan's – and extended it so that the tip was a fist-length from Sissel's throat. 'Shut it.'

Sissel swallowed, looked at the weapon, and shut it.

She waited, hating herself for doing nothing, but knowing there was nothing to be done, as the bandits collected the key from where she'd dropped it and marched in through the door. A few minutes crawled by before they emerged, each of them bearing new weapons and armour taken from the racks and chests where Ozan kept them so neatly organised, and their pockets bulging.

 _I did this. I let them in. Because I was selfish and couldn't take no for an answer._

They'd probably taken most of the wealth Ozan had. And any that was left, they'd demand in return for Sissel's life.

Except, she thought, as they jabbed their weapons in her direction and told her to start walking, leaving one of their number behind to pass on their ransom note, that wasn't what would happen. She knew Ozan and Jenassa too well. When they learned what had happened, they wouldn't just follow the rules this gang of idiots seemed to think they could set out.

She glared at the back of the woman's helmet. Rochelle, the others had called her. She didn't know what was coming. Soon, the wrath of a man who knew how to kill dragons would be descending on her.

But until he came, Sissel knew she would be frightened. Even though she told herself again and again that these people would want her alive. Even though she knew that Ozan would be on his way as soon as he knew what would happen.

She'd thought she was old enough and strong enough to ride off after her foster parents and find her answers. Well, she wasn't. She was still a girl. And she was small and young and scared and she knew she shouldn't be ashamed of that, but she was.

Sissel bit back a sob. She wanted someone there. She wanted someone who would comfort her and hold her close and promise her that everything was going to be all right.

A parent would do that. Lemkil had never done it.

But she wanted someone to do it. And she realised after a moment that she was thinking of Ozan.

 _Just you wait,_ she snarled at Rochelle silently. _You should have decided to attack a different house in the middle of nowhere, because my father's the Dragonborn and you're just a gang of bandits and you're no match for him. You hear that? My father's coming._

It took her a moment to realise that, even if it was only in her mind, she'd called Ozan her father. And she'd meant it.

* * *

 **For the sake of anyone who doesn't have Hearthfire, Rochelle the Red is a bandit who will sometimes attack the Dragonborn's house and kidnap their spouse, demanding a ransom in return. And I couldn't help putting my own spin on that. What if they were to attack the Dragonborn's kid instead?And yes, this means we are finally getting into some action! I hope I can make it worth the wait.**

 **Thanks so much for reading!**


	7. Tasting Blood

**I am so sorry for how long it took to write this. I had terrible writer's block on the first part, so I wrote the second half first. Then when I added in the first part, I realised it was now over 10,000 words long. As a result, I've split it up into two chapters of a more readable length. The plus side is that this means chapter eight will be up in just a day or two, once I've done some editing.**

 **And for now, over to Sissel...**

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN – TASTING BLOOD

When Lemkil's fists had swung her way, in that distant life she'd lived in Rorikstead, Sissel had always had one small comfort. Even if her father hurt her, he would never keep hurting her for long. And beyond the door to the farmhouse, there was an entire village filled with people who did not think it was right to hit a child. Jouane and Erik and Rorik and plenty of others were a short walk away, ready to give her an encouraging word, a smile, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She didn't have that now. There was nobody who she could run to for comfort, no one with whom she could seek sanctuary. Just seven bandits, bandits who kept her walking forwards at a pace so brisk she had to break into a run every so often to keep up with them, bandits whose glares and scornful glances told her that none of them was ever going to be on her side. One walked behind her, sword in hand. The blade was never raised, never pointed in her direction, but the very fact that it was drawn, not tucked into its sheath, was a threat, and Sissel knew from bitter experience that the best way to cope with someone making a threat was not to rise to it.

There was no point in trying to run. These people could run faster. All she could do was obey their order to walk, and walk, and keep walking.

She felt utterly alone, and she kept trying to imagine that she wasn't. If she concentrated hard, she could almost see them walking along beside her, the handful of people who'd shown her kindness and given her comfort. Jouane and Constance and Erandur and Alesan and Jenassa and Ozan. Maybe Ozan more than any of the others, because she knew he could not only comfort her, he could defeat all seven of these bandits without breaking a sweat. And he and Jenassa were the ones who would be on their way to save her.

 _Please let it be soon._

They kept walking. It was snowing again, and Sissel soon had to fold her arms over her chest and tuck her hands under them to keep them warm. Gods, why hadn't she brought any gloves? If there was one small comfort, it was that her captors seemed to hate the cold as much as she did – in the case of those who weren't Nords, probably more. The Redguard woman was shivering fiercely, tugging her fur cloak tight around her body. The Imperial man was stamping through the snow, cursing every time the flakes crept inside his boots. Even the Orc seemed a little miserable. The group's leader, though, the woman in the steel armour – she strode ahead as if the weather and her comrades' complaints were beneath her.

'Hey, Rochelle.' It was the Imperial, jogging a little way forward to walk beside his leader. 'When we've got the ransom money and sold the loot, please telling me we're moving our base somewhere further south. Like, Cyrodiil.'

'You can move where you please, Destrius,' Rochelle snapped. 'There's not going to be a base once we've got the money. I'm buying myself one of those High Rock mansions. And you're not welcome to join me.'

The Redguard woman smiled to herself. 'I'm buying myself a ship and hiring a crew. Haven't decided between piracy or smuggling yet. Maybe both.'

 _So you've stolen money so you can buy a fancy way to steal more money,_ Sissel thought, gritting her teeth. _Makes so much sense._

'I'm going to buy my own inn,' one of the Nords reported.

'Any inn you tried to run would be bankrupt in a week.'

'Fine, I'll buy a brewery.'

'Bankrupt in a day.'

'I'm sorry to be breaking up this fascinating conversation about Hanrand's promising career, but we're here,' Rochelle interrupted. 'Put the loot in one place. We'll divide it up equally later.'

Sissel peered past the clump of people in front of her to see Rochelle approaching a tall rock cliff. There was a door built into the base, a squarish wooden one with slatted windows. Despite herself, Sissel felt a twinge of pity for this motley band. If she lived in a cave in a place as cold as the Pale, she'd probably be desperate for the coin to move to a better life too. Not that she'd stoop to kidnapping and stealing, but she could understand why these people had.

The Nord woman, the one who had been keeping her sword drawn on Sissel, finally tucked it back into her belt. 'So, what do we do with the kid?'

Rochelle gave a dismissive shrug. 'Just put her in a corner and keep an eye on her. An eye and a blade.'

'I'm not playing babysitter any more,' the Nord woman snapped. 'Someone else can watch her now.'

'I'll do it,' the Orc grunted. 'Anything to get out of the sums. I bloody hate sharing out the coin.'

Sissel swallowed; the Orc was one of the people she'd struck with her magic, and he wasn't likely to be kindly disposed towards her. _They need me alive,_ she told herself, for what must have been the hundredth time. _They can't hurt me because they need to show me to Ozan so he'll pay them. Except he won't pay them, because he'll kill him, but they still need me alive._

Knowing that she was safe from death still didn't do anything to make her relaxed, especially not after the Orc grabbed her by the hem of her shirt and pushed her ahead of him into the cave with such force that she almost toppled over. It wasn't a cave, she realised, as she let him half-lead, half-drag her along; it was a mine. Here and there, old carts and pickaxes lay resting against the walls, and there were piles of rock stacked in corners. Its ore must have run dry, leaving it abandoned by its workers, free to act as a home to this gang.

The bandits had built their home in what must once have been the central chamber. The walls were still lined with ramps and platforms, on which the gang had slung their bedrolls. A wooden table stood shoved against one wall, one of its legs so warped and battered that it was a miracle it hadn't already given way. The ground in the middle of the cavern was blackened, as if a fire was regularly made and lit there.

The Orc snatched a length of thin rope from the table and shoved Sissel forward again. He led her up one of the walkways, one that wound around the walls of the chamber until the Orc was having to duck his head so as not to hit the ceiling. At the end of the last platform, he snatched hold of her wrist, pressed it against the wooden railing, and lashed it firmly in place, so that Sissel couldn't even stretch the ropes by tugging them.

'So don't get any ideas about running anywhere,' the Orc grunted, as he did the same to her other arm. 'You try any of that fancy magic, and I'll…' He stopped, apparently remembering that he couldn't kill her. '… I'll make you stop. And even if you get those ropes undone, you're not getting out of here unless you can run the whole way down. So. Stay still.'

Sissel tried to come up with a clever retort, failed, and decided it might be safer to stay silent anyway. The Orc slumped down against the cave wall next to her, dropping his mace to one side and picking dirt out from under his nails. From her high-up position, Sissel could just make out the other bandits milling about below her, dropping the loot they'd taken from Heljarchen Hall into piles.

The sight made a hot flame of anger rise up in Sissel's chest, so she turned her head away and tried to block out the sound of the group arguing over how much each item they'd taken was worth. She had a feeling it was going to be a long wait before Ozan showed up. His daily excursions lasted hours, and though the walk from Heljarchen Hall to this encampment had taken quite some time, Sissel guessed it was still only about noon. It would be some time yet before Ozan returned home and found a bandit waiting with the worst news in the world.

She closed her eyes and tried to make the time go by faster by imagining everything Ozan and Jenassa would do once they found she was missing, how fast they'd move to find her. Then she tried listing the names of all the cities and major towns in Skyrim. Then Cyrodiil. Then High Rock. The bandits bickered below her, the raucous clamour of their voices rebounding off the chamber walls. Sissel's wrists were hurting.

After perhaps an hour, of the other bandits, the Nord woman, marched up the ramp with her share of the gang's meal clasped in her hands, and gestured for the Orc to rejoin the rest of them. He did so with a huff of relief, and Sissel found herself forced to sit and watch as her new guard sat down and tucked into her meal.

The Nord woman didn't give her a crumb. She hadn't expected to receive one. She bit her lip, and tried reciting the names of the Jarls of the holds of Skyrim.

Another hour. Another change of the guard. Sissel was running out of lists. The thought made her remember those lists she'd made about the questions she wanted answered, the questions about her foster father. They seemed so unimportant now. What did it matter what Ozan did for a living, or why he didn't talk about himself? As long as he came, as long as he cared enough to save her, then nothing else mattered.

 _He'll come._

She was feeling the cold biting even more now, even though she was still in her warm outdoor clothes. Still, she'd had worse nights in Rorikstead, tending the crops after dark. Below her, the bandits were huddling close to the fire. The Redguard woman, now guarding her, was rubbing her arms and muttering darkly.

'Why don't you ask them for a cloak?' Sissel said quietly.

The woman glowered at her for a moment before shrugging. 'And let them think I'm weak?'

Sissel said nothing. It must be very lonely, she mused, being a bandit. If you lived in a group like this, you were probably no use if you were weak. You must have to prove yourself every day.

 _No excuse for kidnapping children, though,_ she thought, looking back down at the main group. They were already dead men, she told herself. Soon, Ozan would be here. He'd appear in that doorway and set about her rescue. The entrance might be empty now, but soon, he would fill it.

 _Wait._

 _Was_ the entrance empty? Something about it looked… off. Distorted. Like the air there was making the wrong shapes.

And the patch of distortion was moving. Steadily inching forward. Sissel tracked its path with her eyes. It was heading towards one of the bandits, the Imperial man. He'd peeled off from the main group to sharpen his blade on a battered-looking grindstone. That strange patch of air was moving towards him, and his back was to it, and suddenly, Sissel understood.

Ozan made potions. He'd taught her how to make a few simple ones. She remembered one of the first lessons he'd given her – how to mix the liquid inside Chaurus eggs with the ground-up leaves of a Nirnroot and the dust from the crushed wing of a luna moth, dissolving them all together in water to make a liquid so utterly devoid of colour it was hard to even see that it was there. Ozan had gestured for her to drink a little, and to Sissel's amazement – and delight – her body had blinked out of view. There was still a faint outline to her, a shift in the air as she moved that betrayed where her limbs were, but if anyone had walked into the room, they would have thought Ozan was standing alone.

Just as the bandits thought they were alone now. A smile spread across Sissel's face, and she bit her lip to hide it, so as not to alert her guard that something was up. Her foster father was here. Hadn't she known he'd come?

And now he was standing, invisible, behind the Imperial man's exposed back.

Something in Sissel already knew what was going to happen. She knew, but still, she didn't look away. So she saw the odd patch of air move, a sudden, jerking movement, like a hare that has been crouching low in the grass suddenly springing up to flee. She saw the Imperial man convulse and drop his blade, letting it slip from the grindstone and clatter to the ground. She saw the stream of blood begin to work its way down his neck.

A dagger to the back of the neck. An assassin's strike. The kind of strike that had killed her father.

Except Ozan wasn't bothering with stealth, it seemed, as the assassin who'd killed Lemkil had. He made no move to stop the sword from falling, letting it hit the cave floor and bounce off the stones. Neither did he gently lower the Imperial's corpse to the ground, instead shoving the dead man to the side so that his body thumped as it dropped. The bandits had dispersed into small groups, finishing up the remains of their meal, sorting through the loot, sitting down in corners to talk – but they could hardly have missed those sounds.

The leader, Rochelle, was the first to turn around, and the others followed suit. For a moment they stood motionless, staring at the corpse of their comrade. Then Ozan blinked into view beside him, dagger in one hand, scimitar in the other.

There was a moment of silence. Then one of the bandits let out a high-pitched shout. 'Destrius!'

The Imperial didn't stir. And the man who'd shouted let out a twisted scream of rage and surged forwards, snatching up his battleaxe and charging right for Ozan.

Sissel's breath caught in her throat, but she reminded herself not to be scared. Ozan was the Dragonborn. He was a fighter. He could win this.

She turned her head from side to side, counting the enemy. There had been eight of them when they'd taken her, but they'd foolishly left one behind to deliver their message. Now the Imperial man was dead. The Redguard woman was still guarding Sissel. That left five down in the central chamber for Ozan to deal with.

First of all, the Nord man now barrelling towards him. Ozan stood motionless as he came, making no move until the distance between them was about as long as three horses stood nose-to-tail. Then he sucked in air, and Sissel felt the cavern suddenly shift, vibrate, as he released the ancient power of his dragon blood.

' _Iiz slen nus.'_

It was a Shout, but he barely raised his voice. It was almost casual. One moment, the Nord was storming forwards; the next, his feet locked in place, his arms went rigid, and ice began to gather on his clothes. Thicker and faster the crystals grew, like moss growing on a stone, only a million times quicker. And within a few seconds, he was hidden from view behind a solid block of ice.

'Don't move!' Rochelle screamed the words at her remaining followers, but quickly twisted around to point at Ozan. 'You – don't you move, either. We didn't ask for a fight, we asked for a deal.'

'Deals work if made with people who take them.' He spoke in his normal, clipped manner, but every word was laced with fury. ' _I don't.'_

There was a sudden blur of movement as the Redguard woman acting as Sissel's guard threw herself forward. Sissel cried out – she couldn't help herself – as the woman brought her arm up and around, positioning her blade inches from Sissel's neck. 'Then I'll make a new deal with you. Surrender, or the girl dies! Is that a deal, bastard?'

Ozan's eyes flicked upwards. Sissel met his gaze, trying to stop her fear from showing on her face. _I need to be strong for him._

But the woman's grip was so tight, the blade was so close to her skin, and there was no way Ozan could get up to the high platform, no way he could use a Shout to hit the woman without hitting Sissel too –

There was a faint, almost inaudible _twang,_ followed by a much louder _thunk._ The Redguard woman jerked, like a fish caught on a line, and toppled backwards, dropping her blade, losing her hold on Sissel, and slamming onto the wooden floor. And so Sissel could turn and see the arrow now protruding from between her eyes.

'No deal,' Jenassa hissed, stepping out from the shadows of the cave entrance, slinging her bow back over her shoulder and drawing her sword.

Sissel didn't try to stop herself from smiling. They'd come. Both of them. Jenassa must have hung back so that the bandits thought Ozan was alone and dropped their guard. While Ozan took out the Imperial, she must have been preparing her shot. And now she came to stand beside him. She'd swapped her usual supple leather armour for a chitin set Sissel had seen from time to time within their home, but had never seen her wear. Traditional Dunmer gear, Jenassa had told her. Not as flexible as her leathers, but tougher.

It looked like her foster parents had come equipped to fight hard to get her back.

Even from a distance, Sissel could see Rochelle swallow and draw in a breath before taking a step towards her challengers. 'We told you. The ransom for the girl. There's no need for this.' She gestured to the three bandits left standing behind her. 'You're outmanned.'

'You're dead,' Ozan growled back.

'We don't want to kill you. There'd be no point to this if we did.' Rochelle took a few more steps towards him, her sword drawn. 'If you've brought the gold –'

'We brought only our weapons,' Jenassa said smoothly. 'Now, please stop talking and let us use them.'

As if to underline her point, she twirled her sword in her hand once, whipped around, and plunged it into the ice encasing the Nord who'd been foolish enough to charge Ozan. The blade punched through the ice, sinking in until Jenassa's fingers, grasped around the hilt, were brushing the ice. Sissel winced. She couldn't see through the ice, but she knew that the sword must have gone right through the unfortunate man encased within.

Now the enemy numbered only four.

There was another moment's pause; then Rochelle let out a furious screech and leaped for Jenassa. For a moment, Sissel's heart catapulted into her mouth – her foster mother was still pulling her blade free from the ice, she wouldn't be able to block in time – but Ozan was there, of course, jumping into Rochelle's path and knocking her blade aside with his own. The other bandits darted forwards, one of the Nord women running to aid Rochelle, the other and the Orc heading for Jenassa, and the battle was well and truly begun.

Sissel glanced down at her bonds, then at the dead woman on the floor behind her. With her guard watching, she hadn't dared to try to free herself. But now, with Ozan and Jenassa distracting the only people who could see her, she might be in with a chance. She tried to block out the sounds of battle – she needed to be able to concentrate – and focused all her attention on the rope that bound her left wrist to the railing.

As carefully as she could, she let a fire spell – the weakest she knew, to reduce any risk of burning herself – ignite in her right hand, and brought it as close as she could get it to the left. The edge of the rope blackened slightly, but try as she might, Sissel couldn't stretch her fingers close enough together for the bindings to burn. She breathed in deeply and released the spell, silently willing it to only project itself a short distance, to stay small and controlled. For a heartstopping moment she thought it would hit her hand, but at the last instant, it stopped just short of hitting the skin. The rope, though, was beginning to smoulder.

Sissel stopped the spell as soon as the rope was half burned, and tugged hard. A few strands frayed and gave way. She pulled harder. Nothing. Again, she focused the spell, holding it for a few seconds more, then snuffed it out and pulled. There was a single loud snap, and the rope gave way.

'Yes!' she whispered, unable to stop herself from grinning. If she could free herself, then she might even be able to help Ozan and Jenassa in their fight. Not that they seemed to need much help. Glancing down, she could see them locked in battle. Ozan had already dispatched one of his opponents, the Nord woman, leaving her in a crumpled heap on the floor, and he and Rochelle were clashing their blades together again and again, sending metallic clashes resonating from the walls. It was easy to tell who the better fighter was; Rochelle kept pushing forwards, swinging wildly, aiming for any exposed area of Ozan's body. Her sword had more reach, her armour gave her more protection. But Ozan ducked smoothly out of the way of every blow, his every move measured and precise. Rochelle could not hit him, and it could not have been clearer that Ozan was simply waiting for the right moment to hit her.

Jenassa, meanwhile, was moving light-footed as a dancer, just out of reach of the Orc's flailing axe. She was at a disadvantage, Sissel realised; unlike Ozan, who could remain relatively close to Rochelle, Jenassa couldn't risk getting near enough to land a strike while that huge weapon was swinging. But the Orc had to pause to bring the axe back up after every swing, exposing himself, and that was when Jenassa was leaping in, blade aiming for his neck. So far, the Orc's ally, the woman, had managed to move between the Dunmer and her target every time. But now, as Sissel watched, she miscalculated.

The Orc swung, missed, and stopped to heave his weapon up again. Jenassa lunged in. The Nord woman stepped into her path, sword raised, ready to block Jenassa's blow – but instead of swinging her blade, Jenassa kicked out at the woman's leg. Her chitin-armoured foot collided with the woman's shin, and she staggered back, knocked off balance – right into the Orc, who had been running forwards to aid her. Unable to stop in time, he smacked into her and sent her plunging forwards. Jenassa was waiting, sword extended.

Sissel closed her eyes and turned her head away. She knew that the woman was going to fall right onto the swordpoint, and she didn't want to see it happen. The sound of her scream and the quickly following thump of her falling body were unpleasant enough.

Sissel returned her attention to the bindings around her wrist. With one broken, and her hand able to move freely again, the other would be easier to burn away. Igniting the fire spell again, she hovered the flames over the rope. Bit by bit, strand by strand, the edge of the rope turned red, then black, then dropped away into ash. _Come on,_ Sissel willed it. _Burn faster._

As soon as she felt her skin beginning to smart under the heat, she extinguished the spell and set to trying to break the remaining strands. On her third sharp pull, she managed it. The rope snapped, and she was free.

She flexed her wrists a few times in an attempt to banish the ache from them. It didn't work. She tried rubbing them, but the places where the ropes had rubbed against her skin were still a little tender, and it only made the pain worse. She decided to ignore it for now and ask Ozan for a healing potion later. For now, she had to work out how to help.

Gripping the edge of the rail and standing on tiptoe, she was able to get such a clear view of the combatants that she could have been watching in an arena. Ozan and Rochelle were still duelling in the centre of the chamber, dodging around the edge of the bandits' fire. The only time Ozan seemed to falter was when Rochelle kicked some of the embers in his direction; he responded by leaping to the side so quickly that he nearly tripped. Rochelle took the opportunity to lash out towards his neck, but he dodged at the last second.

 _Weird. He's Dragonborn. I wouldn't have thought him to be afraid of fire._

Jenassa, meanwhile, seemed to have adopted the strategy of winning the battle by tiring out her enemy. She was weaving in and out of the struts that held up the platforms, moving so quickly that no matter how viciously the Orc swung, he simply could not reach her. Sissel could see his sides heaving as he fought for breath – moving that axe must be sapping his energy quickly. They were almost directly underneath Sissel now, and the Orc was grunting in frustration as he tried and failed to aim through the wooden beams. Sooner or later, he'd have to stop to catch his breath, and then Jenassa would surely have him.

He hoisted his axe back up again, then let out a bellowing roar and swung it around in a sweeping arc. Jenassa sidestepped the blow – and it kept going, slicing right through one of the platform supports, and sinking deep into another.

There was a low crunching sound, and Sissel felt the floor beneath her jerk. Her breath stopped in her throat – these mining platforms were clearly old. If the struts keeping them up were damaged, they would fall. And so would she.

 _I have to move._

She turned and ran, heading for the ramp that led down to the chamber floor. But already the platform was jolting, shuddering, and there was no way to stop herself from stumbling. She regained her balance and sprinted for the ramp – just as the Orc, again, lashed out wildly, and sliced through another beam.

The platform gave one sharp jerk beneath her feet and crashed forwards and down. Sissel felt it coming and leaped. For a moment there was empty air beneath her as the section of floor that had lost its supports simply gave way and crashed downwards. Then her feet touched the next section, the section that was still intact – but only for a second. She had jumped badly. She slipped backwards, and, feeling herself beginning to fall, snatched out blindly at the railing. Her arms wrapped around it an instant before her feet went over the edge.

A fierce bolt of agony shot through her arms as they instantly became the only thing keeping her from falling to her death. She choked out a sound that was half a scream and half a shout of pain. She could feel the weight of her body forcing her grip to loosen, and the platform she was clinging to was trembling, as if it too were inches from falling apart. If it did, she was dead.

She tried to pull herself up. Couldn't. Desperate, she twisted her head around so that she could see the ground. She couldn't save herself, but maybe, just maybe, Ozan or Jenassa could.

The Orc was now lying motionless, half-crushed by the fallen platform. Only Rochelle remained. Jenassa was duelling her; Ozan was rushing away from the battle, dropping his blades, skidding to a halt underneath Sissel.

'Hold on,' he shouted up to her.

And then –

And then he bowed his head, spread out his arms, and began to _change._ Darkness flooded out from his body, as if his skin was secreting shadows. Everything about him grew a little larger – his limbs becoming longer, his shoulders broader, his whole frame bulkier. Fingers curled into talons. Skin paled from brown to grey. And on his back, two hook-shaped wings.

She had never seen any creature like this. Not in real life, not in her books. It looked deadly. Even… evil. The sort of creature that was meant to haunt cemeteries and perch on the battlements of haunted castles.

The transformation couldn't have taken more than a few seconds. But almost the second it was complete, Sissel felt her grip slipping again. She tried to tighten her fingers, but her own weight was too much, and she was going to fall, Gods help her, she was going to fall –

The creature that Ozan had become spread out its wings and leaped into the air.

For a moment, Sissel's insides constricted with fear. How could she not be afraid, when a creature like that was shooting upwards towards her? But as it neared her – as _he_ neared her – she reminded herself that this was Ozan, and that he wouldn't hurt her.

So she held back a flinch as he placed his hands firmly on her upper arms and gripped tight. 'Let go. I have you,' he said, the same voice as ever, even spoken from this monstrous-looking mouth, and Sissel did so. She relinquished her hold on the railing, so that she was hanging in Ozan's grasp, his wings pounding against the air on either side of her to keep them both airborne. And then, slowly, he let himself drop, bit by bit, until Sissel's feet were brushing the ground. Only once she was firmly on the floor did he let her go.

A clash of steel reminded Sissel that Rochelle was still there, still fighting. Her sword was raised, blocking one of Jenassa's blows, but her gaze was fixed on Ozan. It was impossible to tell through the helmet, but Sissel was given the distinct impression that she was very, very afraid.

The bandit leader pulled her sword free and backed away. Her head flicked from side to side, between her enemies and the entrance to the cave. Her escape route.

For a few breathless seconds, nobody moved.

Then Rochelle spun around and raced for the exit. Ozan let out a growl, a deep, animalistic sound, and leaped forwards. Wings spread, pushed down against the air. He had reached Rochelle in a single second. His huge, taloned hands gripped her on either side of her helmet, and wrenched her head around to the side. A quick, sharp movement.

There was a loud snapping sound, and Rochelle crumpled to the floor of the cavern.

Silence crept into the chamber like a cat, wrapping itself noiselessly around the walls and settling. The three of them stood motionless, glancing back and forth between each other. Then Jenassa sucked in a breath, and stuffed her sword back into its sheath.

As if her movement was the signal for time to move again, several things happened at once. The entire platform structure Sissel had been hanging from only thirty seconds previously let out a creaking, grumbling sound, and simply folded in on itself, collapsing into a pile of struts and planks. Sissel yelped and rushed forward to avoid the falling pieces of wood. Jenassa darted forward to pull her to safety. Ozan closed his eyes and lowered his head. His skin darkened to brown again, his ears and limbs shrinking, wings melting away like smoke blown away in the wind, talons retreating back into his fingers. By the time the wood pile had settled, he was himself again.

He collected his weapons from where he'd dropped them earlier, stuffed them back into his belt, and strode over to Sissel, bending down so he could look at her from her eye level. 'Hurt?'

It was the first word he'd ever said to her, back when he'd ghosted out of the night in Rorikstead, all that time ago. Sissel shook her head. 'No. I'm OK.'

He frowned and reached out, taking hold of her wrists and examining the raw marks from her bonds. Without a word, he slipped a hand into his pocket, rummaged around for a second, and drew out a healing potion. Sissel remembered how she'd been afraid to touch him when they first met, how she'd waited for him to place the healing potion he'd given her on a rock before she felt safe to take it. But even though she'd just seen him kill a woman by snapping her neck and transform into some kind of fanged, winged beast, she didn't feel that she was in any kind of danger. In fact, as he let drops of the potion fall onto her wrists, smoothing the skin back into its normal state, all she felt was comforted.

'We came as soon as we could.' Jenassa was hurrying over to join them. 'We found Cyrus. We were heading across Whiterun, and we… we saw him in the distance. If Ozan hadn't recognised him…'

'Is he OK?'

Ozan nodded. 'Shaken. But healed.'

'We knew something must have happened, if he was wounded like that.' Jenassa bit her lip. 'So we went back home, and found that bandit there with the ransom note…'

'Came quickly.' Ozan's jaw clenched. 'Called a friend.'

Sissel didn't understand how calling a friend helped you move faster, but Ozan had certainly arrived much sooner than she'd expected. 'Thanks. Thanks for coming.'

'We'll always come,' Ozan said. Quietly, and very firmly.

'I know.'

He placed a hand on her shoulder. 'Let's go home.'

Sissel glanced in the direction of the pile of goods the bandits had stolen from Heljarchen Hall. 'What about - ?'

'Can collect later.' Ozan started walking, not even glancing at Rochelle's corpse as he passed her.

'The important thing now is getting you home,' Jenassa said. 'We can come back for these things. But that's all they are. Just things.'

They walked together in silence through the passage for a few seconds, then Jenassa glanced at Sissel. 'There's something I don't understand. The bandits said they took you from home. Why were you there? We left you with Erandur at the temple.'

Sissel breathed in deeply. She owed them the truth, didn't she, after they'd saved her?

'After you left, I… followed you. I wanted to see where you were going. What it was you did all day and wouldn't tell me about.'

Jenassa's crimson eyes were wide. 'You _followed_ us?'

'On Cyrus. And I found that door thing with the skull on it that asked a weird question, and when you came out I followed you again but then you got too far ahead so I went home.' She decided not to mention that she'd considered digging through their possessions. 'I was going to go back to the temple, but when I went outside, the bandits were there. And then… yeah.'

She looked down at the floor. She couldn't meet their eyes.

'I told you.' Jenassa's voice was quiet, but it shook with barely suppressed emotion. Anger? Fear? Sissel couldn't tell. 'I told you, didn't I?'

Ozan's only response was to nod.

'We can't keep on hiding these things. Look at the danger she got herself into because we tried to deceive her.'

Ozan nodded again. 'I know.'

'So are you going to explain? Because if you don't, I will.'

'I'll explain.'

Sissel realised that her mouth had fallen open. For Ozan to finally answer all her questions… she'd never really believed that it would happen.

'So where do you go? And what does that door do? What's the answer to the question?' Her own questions were spilling out fast now, as if they couldn't hold back now that they'd tasted blood, now they were finally receiving a promise of answers. 'And what was that thing with wings you turned into? And why can't you have kids? And why did you…'

Ozan held up a hand, so Sissel fell silent. If he'd said he'd answer her, he would. She'd just have to wait for him to feel comfortable to start. It was Ozan, after all.

They had reached the door to the mine. Ozan glanced out of the window, at the sky beyond. Then he seated himself on the floor to the passage, leaning his back against the stone wall.

'No more secrets.' Ozan clenched his hands together, then relaxed them. 'Kept much from you. Told myself I was trying to protect you. Think I was really trying to protect myself.'

Sissel sat herself down next to him, and Jenassa did the same, on his other side. 'What did you need protecting from?'

'Guilt, mostly.' He closed his eyes. 'I've told you many stories. This one… you won't like.'

'It doesn't matter. I'm listening.'

He turned his head back towards her, and smiled.

'That's as much as I deserve. All I can ask. Until the tale's told, at least. Because then, I'll have to ask your forgiveness.'

* * *

 **... And though I'm sure you readers have already worked what all of Ozan's secrets are, they will be fully explained next chapter, which will be along shortly. Thanks for reading!**


	8. Blood Power

CHAPTER EIGHT – BLOOD POWER

It was some time before Ozan spoke again. That was fine. Sissel didn't mind. He wouldn't be himself if he found it easy to speak. She watched him grasp the hem of one of his sleeves between his fingers, twisting it restlessly, until at last he dropped it, sighed deeply, and spoke at last.

'It's always… so hard for me to speak about myself. But I can tell stories. I'll tell this like a story, so I can speak freely. Pretend it happened to someone else. Sometimes… I wish it did.'

Sissel bit her lip and waited. Jenassa reached out and took hold of Ozan's hand in hers. He gripped it tight, as if it were a lifeline.

'I'll tell you,' Ozan said. 'Where I came from. Who I am. What I do. What I am. And why you're here with me. You won't like most of it. Neither do I.'

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as he so often did when he started a story. His voice was soft and heavy when he finally began.

'Once, the city of Taneth in Hammerfell stood proudly on the edge of the Abecean Sea. Boats and sand and the calls of merchants were the way of life for those who lived there, whether they dwelt in palace or dock or shadowed backstreet. Even the beggars and the alley thieves felt the tiniest glimmer of pride stir within them when they heard the name of their home said aloud. Even the two street children, a brother and his sister, who were left to fend for themselves after the day the guards came for their parents and took them away.'

'Why did they take your parents?' Sissel never normally interrupted Ozan's tales, but this was different. This might be his the same poetic, musical manner of speaking he used for his stories, but it was _his_ story, and she needed to know everything. Every last thing.

'They were skooma dealers,' Jenassa explained. 'And dealers in other illegal products.'

Ozan nodded in confirmation, and went on. 'The boy was only three. His sister was ten, old enough to care for both herself and her brother. Perhaps, if things had gone differently, they would have lived out their lives on the streets, perhaps they would have died before either of them saw adulthood. But as it was, it never came to that. For after three years of their life alone, a man from a warrior guild happened to be standing near when the girl fought away a boy older and stronger than herself, after he tried to steal from her. The watching warrior saw her potential, and since she would not accept the offer he made unless her brother accompanied her, the guild took them both in.'

He sucked in a breath and carried on. 'That offer was to join his guild, the Alik'r. They were warriors for hire, mercenaries with a code of honour, who served Taneth's ruling house. Their leader – a man named Kematu – looked fondly upon his two young recruits. He saw that their days on the streets had made them quick and clever, skilled at avoiding the eyes of others. The boy in particular was judged young enough to learn a specialised set of fighting skills. Kematu took him under his wing, treated him as both son and apprentice, teaching him to strike from shadow, walk with a cat's silent footsteps, to poison a drink, to vanish into darkness. He raised him as an assassin.'

Ozan stopped, and sent a quick look Sissel's way, as if to see how she would take this.

Sissel swallowed hard, thinking it through. An assassin… it made so much sense. Hadn't he appeared like a ghost from the night, that first time they'd met? He'd struck that Imperial bandit from behind, without the man ever seeing him, and he'd struck a clean blow through the neck. He knew the best places to strike to end a life, be it a mortal's or a dragon's. Of _course_ he was an assassin.

An assassin. Like the one that had killed Grelod the Kind who had once run the Honourhall. Like the one who had killed her father.

Sissel felt her lips part slightly. A new suspicion had awoken in her heart, a cold glimmer of an idea that it was painful to consider. She forced it away. She wouldn't assume anything about the way Ozan's tale was going to end. She couldn't judge him before she knew the whole story.

Ozan was speaking again. 'He was raised in this way, always aware of the value of silence, always aware that death was a part of life. He was taught to have no qualms about killing. Often he worked alongside his sister, who knew him so well they barely needed to speak to each other, and so he learned to speak little, only to expose the truth of his thoughts when necessary. He was contented in this life. Until they day they were all betrayed.'

He breathed in deeply, shuddering slightly, and Jenassa's grip on his hand tightened.

'A young noble woman - Iman of House Suda - betrayed Taneth to the Aldmeri Dominion. She sold them secrets that told them how to take the city. Soon the streets swarmed with gold-clad soldiers. The boy and his sister were returning from a night-time mission when the attack came. He escaped with his life. His sister did not. She died at the elves' hands, the life ripped from her by their spells, while he watched.'

Sissel's throat grew tight. She felt a sudden urge to hug him, the way Constance had sometimes hugged her at the orphanage. To hold him close and somehow draw out the pain.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

He gave a tiny shake of his head and went on. 'He learned that his sister's death had come about from the noble woman's treachery. He swore he would have vengeance. She had fled, fearing the retribution of her house, and he followed after. Across Tamriel he hunted down rumours of her, until at last he learned that she had come to Skyrim. As he crossed the border over the Jerall mountains, he stumbled upon patrols of the Dominion. He... gave in to his anger. He had never, and would never, forgiven them for his sister's death. He attacked them, but they were too many. They captured him, threw him in with a band of Imperial prisoners scheduled for execution at Helgen. But then Alduin himself, the World-Eater, razed the place to the ground, and he escaped in the chaos, only to find that he was Dragonborn.'

He sighed softly. 'He had come to Skyrim to find the traitor. And he found her, hiding in Whiterun under a false name– and in finding her, he had the aid of a Dunmer mercenary who he soon found he did not want to leave his service.' Ozan cast one of his rare smiles in Jenassa's direction. 'The story of how he brought the traitor to justice… that is another tale, and one too long to be part of this one. Let it be enough to know that he fulfilled that purpose, and was left with another: fighting the World-Eater, and saving Tamriel from destruction. It wasn't a duty he wanted.'

'Why?' Sissel inched closer to him. 'What was wrong with being Dragonborn?'

He gave her a sad smile. 'How can a child raised as an assassin live in the eyes of the world, always judged, always forced to speak, knowing that his name would be written forever in the histories? None of that was what he wanted. And so, once he had defeated Alduin, he retreated. He had to find a new purpose, a new calling. There were warrior guilds in Skyrim, but they walked in the open and were hailed as heroes. He did not know how to live such a life. The only life he truly knew was an assassin's, and so an assassin's life he returned to. The Dark Brotherhood of Skyrim might not have the same nobility of the Alik'r, but they had a code. They were a family, but a family that asked for nothing he was not prepared to give. With them, he had a purpose. He knew he was not a good man, living a life of killing, but it was all he knew how to do.'

The cold suspicion was waking again, and this time, Sissel had to voice it. 'I've heard of the Dark Brotherhood. I was told they killed the woman who ran the Honourhall before Constance. And… they killed my father.'

Ozan was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'Yes, that's true.'

Sissel decided not to ask the thing she wanted to ask. If the answer was _yes,_ then Ozan would tell her when he saw fit. She trusted him to tell her. Instead she asked, 'So how did you learn to become a… thingy with wings?'

He gave a small, amused snort. 'That was… not something I would have chosen, if there'd been a choice. But there wasn't.' He lowered his head again, indicating that the story was about to recommence. 'Even though he had fulfilled his destiny, the assassin, the Dragonborn, still felt the dragon rage within him. Still he had to fight dragons, and with every soul he took, the stronger the inner flame became. He already had too much anger of his own… and too little respect for life. Dragons do not respect mortal life. Neither do assassins. The darkness of his dragon soul fed on the darkness of his mortal soul, and began to devour it.'

'Devour it?'

He was back to fiddling with his sleeve. 'He was losing his mortality, losing his mind. In battle, his mind would cloud, until all he knew was a dragon's fury. Again and again, even when out of battle, the dragon within him would rise up and try to seize his thoughts. It was too strong to be resisted. And then, one day, while he and the woman he loved were travelling through the wilderness, returning from a mission, a simple battle with a bandit clan brought the dragon to the fore. He lost control, lost it completely. He… I almost killed her.'

His voice trembled on the final words, and faded.

'He got his control back, once I hit him extremely hard on the head,' Jenassa said quietly. Her face was expressionless, but Sissel heard the slight tremor in her voice, and she well understood why. She had grown so used to thinking of Ozan and Jenassa as a couple, a matching pair, something that always went together. Imagining him attacking her, trying to hurt her… that was a terrifying thought. A blasphemous thought. Something that should never, never happen.

It must have torn both of them apart inside.

Ozan kept speaking, still telling the story as if it had happened to someone else. 'Though his love assured him that she had faith in him to overcome the dragon, he did not have that faith in himself. He had tried meditating with the Greybeards, to no avail. It was hopeless. He could feel the rage burning, constantly. And so he decided the only way to escape it was to end his own life.'

Sissel couldn't bite back a gasp.

'I woke up and he was gone.' Jenassa gave Ozan a small nudge. 'I still haven't quite forgiven you.'

He gave a sad smile. 'I know.'

'But what –' Sissel had to pause to gather her thoughts before she could even get the question out. 'I mean, you didn't kill yourself, so what happened?'

Ozan's face closed off again. 'The Dragonborn slipped away in the night, hating himself even as he did it, and wandered through the wilderness until he found one of the dungeons that are so common in Skyrim. He planned to lock himself inside somewhere, and take a poison he had prepared, which would kill him quickly and quietly. Locked in the bowels of an underground keep, he thought, his body would be safe from any necromancers who might find him elsewhere. If the dragon soul were somehow able to… reanimate… what was left of him, it would, hopefully, be trapped. And finally, he wanted to die somewhere quiet and dark. For in darkness and silence he had always felt safest. But what he found in that particular dungeon was not oblivion, but salvation.'

Sissel frowned. 'What's salvation?'

An amused snort came from Jenassa. 'I think you somewhat ruined the poetry there, Sissel. It means… rescue. Deliverance from danger.'

'The dungeon was filled with vampires, and hunters seeking them out,' Ozan explained. 'The Dragonborn was intrigued enough to watch them, to try to find what it was they sought. And eventually he discovered that they were searching for a person. He found her in the heart of the dungeon, imprisoned and asleep in the dark. Her name was Serana.'

Sissel snapped her fingers. 'You've talked about her before. She's a friend of yours.'

'One of the few and the closest I have, yes.' Ozan nodded. 'But the Dragonborn did not expect, then, to trust this woman. She was not mortal. She was a vampire.'

Another realisation was beginning to form in Sissel's mind, but she kept silent. Ozan had promised to explain, and she knew he would.

'She asked for the Dragonborn to aid her in travelling back to her home. And when they arrived, Serana's father made him an offer. To share in his power. To become a pure-blooded vampire. What he offered was power and immortality, but those were not what the Dragonborn sought. What intrigued him was the idea of a different kind of blood power within his veins. Vampire blood, cold blood, blood that is as much of the ice as the dragon blood is of the flame… could that calm his dragon soul? Could it at least lessen its power? And so he accepted. Not for the sake of power, or because he wished to prey on mortals, but because it gave him a chance to live.'

Sissel breathed in deeply. 'So that was a really roundabout way of saying that you're a vampire.'

His only response was a single nod.

Sucking her lip, Sissel closed her eyes and tried to work out how she felt about that. She had to admit to herself that she knew very, very little about vampires. She knew that they feared sunlight, and that they fed on mortal blood, and that they could live without aging, never dying unless they were wounded fatally in battle. But that was about it. They'd always sounded evil in the stories and histories – but Ozan wasn't evil.

'Did it work?' she asked.

He nodded again. 'The two different types of blood power… they keep each other in balance. The dragon blood's fire is lessened.'

'Is that why you always wear a hood?'

Another nod. 'Dragon blood means I am more resistant to daylight than other vampires. Can still hurt, though.'

'And is that the… condition that means you can't have your own kids? Erandur said something about it.'

'Yes. It is.'

'So you… drink people's blood and stuff?'

'Define, 'and stuff,'' Jenassa murmured.

Ozan gave a small shake of his head. 'Not if I can help it. A vampire craves mortal blood above anything else, but that of animals can sate for short periods of time. I get by. The Volkihar Court – Serana's clan – they make potions that act as a substitute for blood. I've cut most ties with them, except for my friendship with Serana, but I visit to purchase those potions. If I'm forced to prey on a mortal, I try to limit myself to bandits and the like. I always leave a note explaining. A cure disease potion in case I infected them. And some Septims, to… apologise.'

'To pay for your meal, you mean.' Jenassa chuckled. 'I sometimes wonder if there are bandits across Skyrim telling stories to their friends about the time they were attacked by the most gentlemanly vampire in history.'

Sissel couldn't help but laugh. She decided that she didn't mind Ozan being a vampire. Not if he took such pains to make sure he caused no harm. Not if he'd only become one so he didn't go mad, or have to kill himself. Not when by becoming a vampire thing with wings, he'd saved her life. She didn't know enough about vampirs, really, to judge him. He was the only vampire he'd met, and he was a good person. So there couldn't be much wrong with vampires.

'So you went back to Jenassa after that?' she asked.

'Yes.'

Sissel glanced at the Dunmer. 'What did you say?'

Jenassa slowly lifted a hand and rubbed the back of her neck. 'I was relieved to have him back, of course. But… some rules were set out after that. I wasn't impressed that he snuck off to die like that. I made it very clear that we had to come to an understanding about what he was and was not allowed to do.'

'So what's he not allowed to do?'

'Die, for one thing,' Jenassa said simply. 'And he's not allowed to do anything so utterly stupid again. Not when he knows it would hurt me.'

Ozan swallowed. 'It won't happen again.'

She dipped her head slightly. 'I know.'

'And you don't mind that he's a vampire?'

'No, not really. I worked with some peculiar employers throughout my career. It wasn't too great a stretch to add a vampire to them, especially when I knew him so well. And besides… it had always been a fear of mine, that I'd see him live out his years and then have to lose him. Human lives are so very short, compared to those of elves. I could have lived for centuries, while he would have aged and died so soon. Now… that's not something I need to worry about any more.'

It was such an honest statement, such an emotional one, such a – well, Sissel could only describe it as _romantic –_ thing to say, especially coming from the reserved Dunmer, that it was impossible not to smile.

'And what about you?' Ozan raised his eyebrows. 'Do you mind?'

There was another short silence, as Sissel ran everything she'd been told through her mind, trying to work out the answer to that question. 'I don't think so,' she said slowly. 'I don't think I mind the vampire thing. The assassin thing...' She shook her head slightly and fell silent.

'You see why we didn't want you to know any of this,' Jenassa said. 'Though I did think you needed to be told at some point, to avoid you finding out at some other time, and feeling that we'd lied to you.'

'So when you go off to work, while I'm with Erandur, you're…'

'Doing the only thing I know how to do.'

Sissel bit her lip. 'You just ride off and… kill people?'

'It's a lot more sophisticated than that.' Jenassa was shaking her head. 'There is a way of summoning the Dark Brotherhood, attracting their attention. Ozan and I meet with the people who perform this ritual. They direct us towards the person they want dead. And then, yes, we eliminate them.'

'You _kill_ them.'

Ozan fixed his gaze onto hers. 'Yes. As another assassin would, if we did not. And you might be surprised. Yes, some of the people I've killed were innocent. But many were not. Vampires – the kind who do prey on mortals. Traitors. Thieves. Bandits. People who, perhaps, this world is better without.' He let out a long sigh. 'I'm not a man who can bring light into this world, Sissel. That's not something I've ever known how to do. What I can do is destroy spots of darkness.'

'Like my father?'

The words came out. No warning. She had been holding them back, trying to wait for Ozan to reach this part of the story on his own – but now the question had been spoken. It had slipped from her mouth as if it were tried of waiting.

Silence again. Jenassa clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and turned her head away. Ozan's gaze became distant, as if he were no longer looking at her, but through her.

And at last, he gave the tiniest nod. 'Yes, Sissel. Like your father. I was the one who killed him.'

He inched a little way away from her, as if giving her space, room to think and decide what to say. And all she could say was, 'I know.'

Maybe she'd always known. Maybe some part of her mind, a quiet part that refused to speak up, had already made the connections. The silent-walking stranger who'd just happened to be visiting Rorikstead the night her father never came back from the inn. His skill with the dagger, the very weapon that had pierced the back of Lemkil's neck. His refusal to speak about his work. A door with a skull symbol, a symbol of death.

Her father's killer let out a long, heavy sigh. 'It was a contract. A man asked for his death. I don't remember anything about the contractor, before you ask. I rarely do. There are too many, usually one every day of my life. It was just one more contract. I didn't think there would be any reason for that job to be special. Could have been anyone. A merchant, a guard, a villager. But he asked for Lemkil of Rorikstead to be killed. And I killed.'

She could picture it. She could picture it so clearly. Lemkil staggering home in the dark, drunk and defenceless. Ozan melting from the shadows, dagger in hand. The blade striking without sound, a quick, clean blow, through the neck. Lemkil falling, dead before he hit the ground. Ozan catching him with practised ease, dragging his body behind the inn, so that it would be some time before he was found. Time for Ozan to put plenty of distance between himself and the village.

Again, Sissel breathed in deeply. 'If you killed my father, why did you adopt me?'

'That's the final part of the story.'

Sissel turned her head towards him, so that he knew she was listening.

He flexed and curled his fingers a few times before speaking. 'So. The Dragonborn, the assassin, the vampire, was sent to kill a man, and he killed. But before he struck that blow, he encountered a child by the roadside. She reminded him of his younger self, a child with the odds stacked against her. A family who left her to work after dark in the cold. It was… soothing, to speak to someone who didn't know to judge him, who didn't know of the darkness in him. And this girl – she had dreamed of a grey dragon. She piqued his interest. She… made him regret that he could not have children of his own.'

He let out another sigh, his breath thickening into clouds as it entered the frosty air.

'The next time he passed through Rorikstead, he kept an eye out for the girl. He didn't find her, and he… he was worried. There had been a dragon close to the village. Perhaps it had paid a visit. He stopped in the inn to ask those who lived there and he found that the girl was gone. Because an assassin had killed her father.'

His hands stirred restlessly in his lap. 'So often, he had killed without thinking. No remorse. He was just the weapon that those who wished to see someone dead used to fulfil those wishes. Why should he feel any guilt, when he was just a tool? But now he felt regret of a kind he was unused to. He had orphaned a child. The death of that farmer suddenly became personal to him. And he felt… he had to atone.'

'Atone?' Sissel echoed.

'Make amends,' Jenassa explained. 'Make up for what he'd done.'

Sissel nodded. 'So you adopted me.'

'The Dragonborn, when he was next in Riften, visited the Honourhall. He did not intend, at first, to take the child into his own care.' The ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of Ozan's mouth. 'But on seeing her again, he was reminded of why she'd impressed him so much before. Life had been cruel to her, and yet… she had not let it break her. There was no darkness in her. He… admired that.'

He stood suddenly, clasping his hands behind his back. 'Was it selfish of him? He wanted to lessen his own feelings of guilt, so he had some way to tell himself he was not an entirely bad person. But to lie, to let her think he was just a kindly stranger when he was the reason she was an orphan… how can that have been the right thing to do? Or maybe it was a good action, done for the wrong reasons.' He bowed his head. 'I don't know.'

For a few more moments, he stood motionless. Then he let out a long sigh, turned around, and sat back down. When he spoke again, his voice was as it normally was; clipped and quiet, missing out the unnecessary words wherever possible.

'Now you know. That's who I am. Everything. Now, your choice.'

Sissel frowned. 'Choice?'

'Stay. Return to Honourhall.' He closed his eyes. 'Forgive or not.'

'Do you want me to stay?'

His eyes opened again, and he nodded. A simple movement, but from the look on his face, Sissel knew how much meaning was behind it. How much truth.

'Whatever his original reasons for taking you in, I can tell you that he's come to care for ou as if he were your own,' Jenassa said softly. 'That goes for both of us.'

'Understand if you don't feel safe,' Ozan added. 'But… I'm sorry. For killing your father. For lying.' He turned his head to look her in the eye. 'Sissel… I would never do anything to hurt you.'

A rare complete sentence, one that wasn't even part of one of his stories. Sissel bit her lip. She believed him.

She closed her eyes and thought about how odd it was that her father, who was her flesh and blood, who had been an honest farmer, if an unpleasant man, had hated her and hurt her and wished she had never been born. How she'd never felt safe around him and had never trusted anything he said. And it was equally strange that Ozan, who was an assassin and a vampire and had no reason to care about her, who had killed her father in cold blood, cared about her and had risked his life to save her. How he could tell her that he was a monster, a murderer, all of that – and she could still utterly believe him when he told her he would never hurt her.

 _Family is more than shared blood._ Jouane's words sounded again in her head, and she knew for certain that this was what he had meant. But this _something more,_ this whatever it was that bound them – was it strong enough? Ozan killed people. For a living. That… that was a bad thing.

He must know that. He'd kept it secret because he'd known that. Why did he do it if he knew it was bad?

 _He never told me this because he knew I'd be upset,_ Sissel thought. _And I am. Still, I'm glad he told me. I think it's better to know things than to be left to wonder._

A thought occurred to her suddenly. The one thing Ozan hadn't explained. 'Why was it so important to you that I dreamed about a grey dragon?'

Ozan stared at her; Sissel could tell this wasn't what he'd been expecting her to say. For a few moments, he kept looking blankly in her direction. Then his brow furrowed, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. He glanced at Jenassa, his brows raised. She shrugged and tilted her head slightly.

Nodding, Ozan turned back to Sissel. 'I've a friend. You'd like him. Want you to meet him.' He rose to his feet. 'Choose after you speak.'

Sissel stood up, frowning. 'Why do I need to speak to him?'

'I don't know who I am sometimes. He always seems to.'

'And… you think he can tell me whether or not I should stay?'

'Better than me.'

Sissel tipped her head on one side. 'Who is he?'

Ozan twisted around, his gaze flicking up and over the tops of the pines, towards the distant row of mountains that stood thick and grey against the horizon, their peaks punching through the clouds.

'His name is Paarthurnax.'

* * *

 **And so a rare event happens which has rarely been experienced before in my writing, nor ever will be again, most likely... Ozan. Talking. Freely.**

 **A more skilful writer than I would probably have found a candidate to be confirmed as Lemkil's killer. I did have a few people in mind when I started writing, but I couldn't choose between them, and in the end I decided it wasn't really an important element of the story - and nor would Ozan realistically be likely to remember, what with how many people have hired him over the years. I apologise for the unanswered question - but feel free to come up with your own theories!**

 **If anyone's wondering about why Ozan's eyes have been described as brown throughout the story even though he's a vampire, there are a few reasons. The out-of-story reason, of course, is that if he did have glowy vampire eyes, Sissel would probably have worked it out herself, which would have thrown a spanner into the works of the plot slightly. In-universe, it's because his dragon blood counteracts that particular effect of the vampire blood. Ozan gets the benefit of not looking really evil and vampire-y, but pays for it with having slightly weaker vampiric abilities overall. Of course everything about his dragon and vampire blood problems is my headcanon, not official part of the game lore, so I hope no one minds this.**

 **The next chapter will be the final one of this story. I really hope you enjoy it - because I'm very much looking forward to writing it. Thanks for reading!**


	9. Ancient Blood

**It's finally finished! I'm so sorry for the delay; the exams arrived before I could finish writing this, and almost as soon as they were over I went away for a week without internet. But here at last is the final chapter. I've had a blast writing this story, so I hope you all enjoyed reading it, and that I won't disappoint now. Thanks so much for reading!**

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT – ANCIENT BLOOD

Ozan pushed open the door to the mine to reveal that there was a dragon sitting outside the entrance.

After a day filled with one unexpected and heart-stopping event after another, Sissel had thought that nothing else could really surprise her any more. She had been very soundly mistaken. She heard a gasp break free from her mouth, and tried to take a step backwards, behind her foster parents, but her feet seemed suddenly frozen to the spot. Eyes wide, she glanced between Ozan and Jenassa's faces. Neither of them seemed worried, or even surprised.

Since neither of them was reaching for their weapons, Sissel decided she was probably safe to take a closer look. It didn't look much like the white dragon, the one that had attacked their home. Not white, for one thing, but red, a dark crimson with paler patches on the wings. The spines were not so long, not so vicious-looking. But the face, the eyes… they had the same intelligence as that white dragon had had. This creature was, undoubtedly, a person. No mindless beast.

The dragon lifted its head, turning its sinuous neck around so that it was facing Ozan. _'Dovahkiin._ You found her.'

Ozan nodded. ' _Geh. Kogaan fah hiif, fahdon.'_

Though Sissel had no idea what the words meant, she felt something stir inside her at the sound of them. She didn't understand what was said, but she felt like the meaning was… close to her. Like a memory that she couldn't quite reach, but was still inside her.

Ozan extended a hand towards the dragon. 'Sissel, Odahviing. Odahviing, Sissel.'

'Odahviing is a… friend,' Jenassa explained. 'You probably heard the story of the Dragonborn catching a dragon in Dragonsreach and riding off astride that dragon to confront Alduin. The dragon in question was Odahviing.'

Sissel breathed out slowly. 'So that's how you got here so quickly.'

Lowering its head, the dragon spoke, voice deep and resonant. 'The _Dovahkiin_ has my _grin do zin…_ my bond of honour. When he calls my name, I come, and aid him against his foes.'

'And you helped him find me?'

'None shall harm the family of the _Dovahkiin_ while I draw breath on Nirn.' Odahviing sank his talons into the snow. 'I could not lend my flame to his battle. _Nii los krosis._ But to lend him my wings to reach the battle… it is not as much, but it is enough.'

A realisation had been steadily occurring to Sissel as he spoke. 'Um. So the only way to get home is…'

Ozan shrugged. 'Hope you don't mind heights.'

'I don't know. I've never been anywhere very high.' Sissel couldn't deny that the thought of riding this dragon was unsettling. Not because she didn't trust him. If Ozan trusted him, that was enough. But… well. A dragon. Her, riding it. Possibly falling off.

'You will not fall, _kiir,'_ Odahviing growled, as if he'd read her thoughts. 'And if you do, I shall catch you.'

Sissel wasn't sure what was worse: the thought of falling, or the thought of being caught in those enormous talons.

'It's safe, Sissel,' Jenassa said quietly. 'Believe me, I had my doubts the first time, too. And it does give you quite the beautiful view.'

That brought the ghost of a smile to Sissel's face. That carriage ride from Rorikstead to Riften, through the plains and shady forests and the mountains and the amber woods of the Rift would always be one of the most precious memories she had. What would it be like, to see it all again with the eyes of a dragon?

'All right.' She said it quickly, so that she didn't have time to lose her courage.

Ozan nodded, and clasped his hands together. 'We head home. Eat, rest. Then… someone I wish you to meet.'

That was definitely a good idea. Sissel was tired and starving, and quite honestly, she would willingly set aside all her doubts about her foster parents for as long as it took to amend that.

Odahviing's piercing gaze turned to Ozan. 'Who do you plan for her to meet, _Dovahkiin?'_

'Paarthurnax.'

The huge, horned head inclined slowly. ' _Zu'u koraav.'_

Sissel glanced between them. 'Who is Paarthurnax? Is he…' She hesitated, knowing it would sound foolish if she was wrong. 'Is he another dragon? His name sounds…'

' _Hi los onik._ You are wise for one so young, _kiir.'_ The tone in Odahviing's voice could be nothing but… approving. 'He is _dovah._ He is a teacher. _Mindopah ahrk aak.'_

'Understand when you meet him.' Ozan sighed. 'He knows me best.'

Jenassa coughed meaningfully.

'Knows me in a different way.'

The Dunmer raised her eyebrows. 'I'll take your word for it.'

Odahviing bent down so that the spikes on the underside of his chin were brushing the ground. 'Come, _joorre._ I shall return you to your home, _Dovahkiin,_ and if you need my wings again to carry you to Paarthurnax, call my name.'

'Thank you, Odahviing.' Ozan strode over to him, grasped his horns, and swung himself up onto the plated neck – Sissel noticed that behind Odahviing's neck, his spines were short enough for them to sit comfortably. Ozan beckoned her over, and, with no small amount of trepidation, Sissel allowed him to help her up behind him.

'Can you carry all three of us?' she asked, as Jenassa joined them.

Odahviing let out a loud snort. 'Ha! _Joor kiir,_ your weight is nothing. I have torn mountains asunder with my talons alone. Do not doubt the strength of a _dovah.'_

'Dragons are proud,' Ozan explained, simply and unnecessarily.

Sissel shifted until she was comfortable as she could be in her seat. It was reassuring to have her foster parents on either side of her; with her holding on to the back of Ozan's tunic, and Jenassa's hands on her shoulders, steadying her from behind, she felt somewhat more secure. 'OK. I'm ready to go.'

'Then let us go.' Odahviing's vast wings unfolded. ' _Lok saraan.'_

The wings pushed down, and the dragon lurched upwards. Sissel yelped and grabbed a tighter hold of Ozan, squeezing her eyes tight shut as the lurches repeated. _I am never, never becoming a dragon,_ she decided.

'It gets better.' Jenassa's voice was as tense as Sissel felt. 'Once he's gained some height, everything smoothens out a bit.'

'Good,' Sissel said faintly.

She kept her eyes closed and, to distract herself, focused on how glad she was that she hadn't eaten since the morning. Anything she'd eaten would likely have come up again.

And then the lurching stopped, and Sissel became aware of a new sensation, that of the wind beating against her dress. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so, and Odahviing's movements were suddenly gentle and fluid. She swallowed and opened her eyes.

'Wow.'

It was all she could think of to say. Odahviing's wings were open and spread, carrying his bulk through the sky in a smooth glide. Above them, there was an emptiness she wasn't used to. Whenever she looked up, normally, there were trees or buildings around the edges of her view. Now, there was nothing but blue and streaks of cloud.

And looking down… looking down, she saw Skyrim. The forests had faded into blurs of green, the buildings had dwindled to brown specks, and the rivers glinted like lengths of silver ribbon.

'It's beautiful,' she breathed.

Ozan dipped his head.

'And… we're going so fast.'

'Soon be home,' Ozan said quietly.

And Sissel, still in the grip of her awe, didn't question the word _home._

* * *

Five or so hours after dawn the next morning, she was again sitting on Odahviing's back, and he was bearing her through the sky.

She'd been too tired, when they reached Heljarchen Hall the previous night, to do anything but eat, pull off her coat and crash into bed. She and Ozan and Jenassa had spoken little throughout the morning, but that wasn't uncommon. Ozan could go whole days without speaking. And even though the revelations of the day before hung in the air between them – vampire, assassin, her father's killer – there was something… comfortable about the atmosphere of their home. It felt easier, somehow, knowing everything there was to know about Ozan, even if what she'd learned mostly consisted of bad things. She preferred it to the feeling of not knowing, to feeling in the dark and ignored.

And it was hard to dwell on her doubts, when she had been promised the chance of talking to another dragon. She wasn't sure why it excited her so much. Perhaps it was because of that dream she'd had. Perhaps it was because if she understood dragons, she might be able to understand more about her dragon-souled adopted father. Or maybe it was because there was some kind of beauty to the creatures. Something about them that drew her.

Jenassa did not accompany them; she would spend the day arranging to have everything the bandits had attempted to steal taken back to Heljarchen Hall. Though Odahviing insisted that carrying three would have been no harder than carrying two, Sissel did have a feeling that they were moving faster. Certainly, after only about an hour in the air, they were nearing the slopes of the Throat of the World.

'Is this where the dragon lives?' she asked, as Odahviing began to approach the summit, tilting his huge head slightly so that the driving snowflakes weren't going directly into his eyes. She was glad Ozan had insisted she wear so many layers; she knew that this mountain was the highest in all Tamriel. The perfect place for a dragon to live.

Ozan nodded. 'At summit.'

'All the way at the top?'

Another nod. Sissel wasn't surprised. Dragons in books and drawings always seemed to live at the tops of mountains.

'What was his name again?'

Odahviing was the one who replied, his words faint, half torn away by the wind. 'Paarthurnax, _kiir.'_

'What does that mean?' She wasn't sure why she asked the question. She just felt, suddenly, like the name had a meaning. As if all dragon names had meanings.

'Ambition overlord cruelty,' Ozan said, and swiftly added, 'Doesn't suit him.'

Odahviing was rising still higher. It was a fairly cloudless day, but Sissel knew that if the sky had been filled with its usual covering, they would be above it by now. Shivering slightly, she watched the grey and white mountain peak grow slowly closer. And closer still, until at last Odahviing began the lurching decent, dropping down bit by bit until his feet crunched in the snow.

'I shall await your call, _Dovahkiin,'_ he growled, as Ozan slid off his neck and reached to help Sissel down.

'Thanks, Odahviing,' Sissel said, and the dragon gave her a low nod before leaping back into the sky.

She pulled her coat a little tighter around herself and looked around; Odahviing had dropped them on what seemed to be a plateau near the summit. Sissel sucked in a few deep breaths; she knew that it could be hard to breathe at heights like this, and that she should move slowly and carefully to avoid feeling ill.

Ozan waved his hand, indicating something further along the plateau, and Sissel turned to face in that direction. It was hard to see anything through the thick clouds of snowflakes, but she could just make out a dim shadow behind the white flurries, a dark grey blur. Frowning, she inched forward to see if she could get a clearer look.

And then a breeze parted the snowclouds just for a moment, and Sissel saw the shape for what it was. She saw the thick curve of the neck, the hunched wings, the jagged ridge of the spines. She saw the claws, claws as long as her lower arm, where they gripped the rim of the wall. She saw the clouds of breath frosting instantly in the snow-crowded air.

She saw the dragon raise his head and turn it towards her.

Instinct made her step back and to the side, shrinking close to Ozan, so that the fur of her coat brushed against his arm. But he glanced down at her, smiled, and gestured for her to walk forwards. And since Ozan told her to, Sissel knew that she could do it and be safe. This dragon was not an enemy, like the white beast that had attacked their home. This was dragon was like Odahviing, like the dragon she'd seen in her dream.

Very like the dragon from her dream, she saw, as she moved closer, lifting her feet high to clear the snow. This dragon was grey, just like the one she'd imagined as she'd slept. His scales had none of the vibrancy of Odahviing's; they were nicked and scarred in a hundred places. He was perching on some kind of wall, a wall built in a shallow curve, and the wings that held him in place there were tattered, like old clothes that no one had ever had time to mend. One of the horns that jutted downwards from his chin was broken near the base, and the tip seemed to have snapped off one of the large ones on the top of his head.

Sissel kept walking forwards, until at last she was close enough to meet his eyes through the snow. They were grey, a little cloudy, perhaps, in the way that Jouane's were. This dragon was old. Much older than Jouane. Probably older than everyone Sissel had ever met put together.

He looked down at her, and the expression on his face was deeply, infinitely kind.

A feeling Sissel had no name for swept over her body, making the hairs on her arms prick and her breath snag in her throat. It was a feeling of awe, of realisation, a feeling that told her that she was on the verge of something and there was no going back, not now, not ever.

' _Drem yol lok.'_ The voice growled like Odahviing's, but there was a softness to it, a gentleness. 'Welcome to the edge of the world, young one.'

Sissel took another step towards the dragon, her eyes so wide she thought they might burst from her skull. 'I dreamed about you.'

A chuckle came rumbling up from the depths of that fanged maw, a warm, fond sound that seemed to come from right inside the depths of wherever it was that a dragon's fire was born. ' _Tol los ful?_ Then I am honoured, _dii kiir.'_

The crunch of snow underfoot told her that Ozan was approaching. He dipped his head as he drew level with Sissel, and the look of respect on his face was one that Sissel had never seen him direct at anyone before, except maybe Erandur. ' _Drem yol lok, fahdon._ This is Sissel. My foster daughter.' He glanced down at Sissel, then back at the dragon. 'Took her in for many reasons. One was her dream.'

The grey dragon tilted his head to one side, as if thinking hard, then slowly clambered down from the wall. Crouching in the snow before the pair of them, he lowered his head so that it was on a level with Sissel's. ' _Goraan gein,_ young one, I am Paarthurnax.' The edges of his mouth curved upwards into what could only be a smile. 'Many have come here over the years to learn from me, but you are the youngest, I think. What is it you seek?'

Sissel glanced at Ozan, and the Redguard took a step forward. 'Paarthurnax…'

What he said next was in the dragon language. Sissel could tell that it was as clipped and monosyllabic as normal, but Paarthurnax seemed to understand. 'You still doubt it, _Dovahkiin?_ Akatosh made his choice, and he chose well.'

'Maybe. But Sissel deserves answers.'

Paarthurnax gave a small shake of his head. 'You have the answers within you, _fahdon._ You simply do not look deep enough to find them.'

Ozan folded his arms and said nothing.

With a huff, Paarthurnax nodded. 'I will answer the child's questions. Perhaps with time, you shall find your own answers, _gritaas gein.'_

As he so often did, Ozan made no response to this, and simply turned and stalked away over the snow, vanishing within a few seconds behind the wall of snowflakes. Sissel guessed he was going a little way off so that she and Paarthurnax could talk openly – and she didn't mind that. She felt safe with this dragon. She had dreamed of this dragon, and he had not been one of the bad ones.

'So, _kiir,'_ Paarthurnax said gently. 'Tell me of your dream, and tell me your questions.'

Sissel glanced down, wondering if there was a rock that she could sit on. There wasn't, but Paarthurnax flicked his tail around so that rested on the ground just in front of her, and gestured for her to take a seat. Feeling a little like she was doing something disrespectful, Sissel sat herself down on the thick grey scales.

'It was a dream I had ages ago,' she said slowly. 'Before I met Ozan, or saw any dragons. I… think I was here, on this mountain, but it wasn't snowing. It was night, and there were stars everywhere, and - and I think I was with you.'

She broke off, pressing her eyes closed as she forced her mind back in time. It had been so long ago, that night when she'd dreamed of a grey dragon. It almost felt like something that had happened in another life.

'You saw me,' the dragon murmured.

'Yes.'

Paarthurnax let out a low, throaty chuckle. 'I hope I did not frighten you, _mal gein.'_

'No. No, you didn't,' Sissel said quickly. 'I wasn't scared. I… sort of knew you wouldn't hurt me. You just weren't scary.'

Another rumbling laugh, as Paarthurnax unfurled one ragged wing and eyed the frayed edges. 'I am in little shape to scare any, now.'

Sissel smiled. 'How old are you?'

'I do not know. Time is not to us as it is to _joorre,_ to mortals. We do not see it in parts, as you do. I cannot measure it in a way you would understand. I know only that many ages of men have come and gone, risen and faded, while I waited upon this peak.'

'Were you alive during the Dragon War?'

' _Geh._ I was. I lived and fought in that war, and I was not young even then.' He shook his weathered head. 'But that is long past. Tell me more of your dream.'

Sissel pursed her lips. 'Well. Not much actually happened. I think it was snowing, and you covered me with your wing, and we sort of sat and watched the snow, and the stars.'

The cloudy eyes gazed at her, steady and intense and very, very kind.

'And, um, that was it. I think.'

Paarthurnax's eyes narrowed, in what Sissel took to be a dragon's version of a frown. 'And you had this dream long before you met the _Dovahkiin?'_

Sissel didn't know what _Dovahkiin_ meant, but it was how Odahviing and Paarthurnax had both addressed Ozan, so she guessed it was some kind of dragon name for him. 'Yes. Well, not _long_ before I met him. Just before. I think it was only a few days.'

Paarthurnax let out a low, thoughtful _hrmm_ sound.

'What does it mean? How could I have a dream about you before I even knew you existed?'

'Let me think on it, _kiir.'_ Paarthurnax ruffled his wings a little. 'For now, tell me of your questions.'

Sissel frowned. 'But-'

'Come, _mal bron,_ and do not quarrel. Among the _dovahhe,_ the dragons, it is tradition that the elder choose the path of the _tiinvaak,_ the conversation.'

'Mmm.' Sissel huffed. 'I think that's a human tradition too. My friend Jouane told me to have respect for my elders about a million time.'

The dragon gave no reply beyond another amused rumbling. Sissel stared at him for a moment more, then gave in.

'Ozan adopted me… a long time ago now. Almost a year. He and Jenassa have been looking after me. I like them. They're a lot better than my father, my real father. He used to…'

She let the sentence trail off. Even after all this time, it was hard to talk about. Even think about.

'He used to hurt me when he was angry,' she got out at last. 'Me and my sister.'

Paarthurnax's eyes closed for a few moments. 'The families made by mortals are incomprehensible to most _dovahhe,'_ he murmured. 'But I have spent many centuries doing what I can to learn a little of how it is you live and grow together. I know that no parents should cause pain to their child. _Lot krosis._ It is a great sorrow.'

A great sorrow. Yes, that sounded about right.

'When my father was killed… I wasn't really sad about it.' Sissel scuffed at the snow with her boot, sending flakes flying. 'I don't miss him. But yesterday, I found out that it was Ozan who killed him.'

She looked away. A sound came from Paarthurnax that might have been a sigh.

'Do you know what he does?' Paarthurnax said, after a silence of some length. 'How it is that he makes his life?'

'He kills people.' Sissel swallowed. 'He's an assassin. He told me.'

'So this is your question, _goraan dremiik?_ You wish to know why a man who can take the lives of others in order to create his own can also be the man who showed you kindness, who treats you well, who sees you as a daughter far more than your blood father ever did. _Nid?'_

Sissel nodded. 'Yeah. All of that. And… do you think I should stay? Keep living with him?'

The snow was becoming more fierce by the second. Paarthurnax glanced up at the whitening sky, then opened one wing, shielding Sissel from the weather, just as he had in her dream.

'Tell me,' he said, dropping his head back down and meeting Sissel's gaze. 'Why would you _not_ stay?'

That wasn't something she'd considered. 'I… um, I don't know. I guess – he's an assassin, and a vampire, and he killed my father. If he were in a book, that would make him one of the bad people, wouldn't it?'

'Are we in a book, _kiir?'_

There was only one answer to that. Sissel shook her head.

' _Nid,_ and things that happen in _laas,_ in life, are seldom as they are in the tales. The stories are full of day and night, light and shadow, separated cleanly. But in truth, there is always twilight between day and darkness. In this world, things are not as simple as we would like to believe.' He gave another dragon-frown. 'Do you fear the _Dovahkiin_ because of what he is? Or do you merely feel that you should be afraid, knowing that others would be?'

Sissel hesitated. He had a point. _Vampire_ and _assassin_ were words that sounded bad. Anyone who heard them would associate those words with evil. And yet Ozan had never done anything bad to her, not directly. He had killed her father, but he hadn't done it because he wanted to be cruel to her. The only reason she might not want to stay with him was because… well, it wasn't what you were supposed to do, was it? You weren't supposed to live with the person who assassinated your father, and think of them as your father instead.

Why, though? Why, except that it was strange? Strange wasn't a good enough reason.

'I'm not scared of him. He'd never do anything to hurt me.' Sissel spoke firmly, because she knew that it was true.

'And how is it you know that?'

'Because he wouldn't.' That wasn't a very good answer, so she was relieved when a better one quickly occurred to her. 'I just know, same as I knew you were a good dragon when I had that dream about you.'

Paarthurnax regarded her for a moment. 'Let me tell you, _kiir,_ of what it is that makes a _dovah,_ a dragon, burn to the ground a city of mortals, or hunt the innocent, or even attempt to cause the end of this world. It is rage. _Rahgol._ It smoulders within us like a fire, and it cannot be contained. The will to destroy is in our blood, and most of my kin do not try to resist it.'

'You're not like that,' Sissel pointed out.

'No, I am not, for I have been changed. I have done terrible things in my time, my young friend. I have slain many, and served one who was evil down to the last drop of blood in his veins. But with the passing of time, I have learned to respect and understand motrals. And since I see their lives as having value, I must restrain my inner rage. It is not easy. _Bah los wo Zu'u los._ Wrath is who I am, and it will always be within me. But I am changed, and I am no longer, and I am no longer the creature of evil I was.'

Sissel wasn't sure how this related to Ozan, but she was fairly sure that Paarthurnax would explain soon, so she waited.

'Your _bormah,_ your father, the _Dovahkiin_ – he is the same. There is rage inside him, both his own, birthed by his past, and that of his _dovah sos._ His dragon blood and soul give strength to what anger is already within him. He has tried to contain it –'

'By becoming a vampire. He told me.'

' _Drem,_ small one, and let your elder speak. _Geh,_ he became a _sosnaak,_ a creature of the night, balancing one blood power with another. That dims his dragon rage. But to control his own rage, his own darkness, his mortal darkness – what is needed is something more.'

He turned his head toward the path that stretched away from the summit; Sissel guessed it led to the monastery she'd seen nestled on the slopes. 'I did not change alone, _kiir._ I was aided by allies, by _fahdonne._ Friends. My _wuthiik fahdonne,_ the Tongues of old, stood by me and put their trust in me, though they knew that darkness still ran in my blood. They did not desert me, though many would have told me I was undeserving of their friendship simply because I was _dovah.'_

And at last, Sissel understood. 'It's like me and Ozan. Other people would say he's a bad person because he's an assassin and a vampire, but I know he's good.'

' _Hi los onik, goraan gein._ You see beyond what he is, and see who he is. He is struggling to overcome his darkness, and so he needs the aid of those who care for him, just as I did. You are one of those who can aid him. You must remind him of what is right, and of what is good about him. And perhaps, as I did, he shall find a new way of life. Even if he does not, he shall find a new strength in himself. For he believes he is a creature of darkness, but how can he continue to believe such a thing, when one such as you have trust in him?'

'You think I can help him by staying?'

Paarthurnax gave her another of his intense looks. 'Do you wish to leave?'

'No.' The word came out instantly, instinctively, without Sissel even thinking about what she was saying. 'I want to stay with him and Jenassa.'

And she did. She wanted to have her riding lessons with Cyrus, the horse Ozan had bought for her. She wanted to spend her days learning about the world from Erandur, and her evenings listening to Ozan's stories. She wanted to live with the people who cared about her, and who had come to save her when bandits kidnapped her, and who had never raised their hands to her.

'There are things that are worse than killing a father.' Paarthurnax's voice had a sudden weariness to it. 'I caused the death of my own brother. He was Alduin, the World Eater, and he deserved death. But this world is not the same without him.'

Sissel nodded, thinking of Lemkil. 'I think it's good that my father's dead. I'm happier with him gone. But there's still something sad about it.'

' _Vahzah._ True. Perhaps you and I both mourn what could have been. That my brother and your father could have been more. But the world is without them now, and they, in death, should not change the fates of the living.'

It was true, and Sissel knew it. Lemkil was dead. He had controlled her life when he was alive. He had no right to control her any more, not now that he was gone.

She smiled. She'd made her choice, and in the end, it had been easy.

'Paarthurnax,' she said slowly. 'What about my dream? You said you'd tell me what you thought it meant.'

' _Geh,_ and now I have thought on it, I shall tell you.' He shook his unfurled wing, sending snow scattering off the sails. 'It is not certain. Such things are often meant to be mysteries. But there may be reasons.'

Sissel _hated_ it when adults did this – rambled for ages before actually answering a question. 'What sort of reasons?'

The dragon made another _hrmm_ sound. 'Your _bormah,_ your father, is not the first of his kind. Indeed, he is the last, the last Dragonborn. There were others before him, on whom Akatosh bestowed his gift, such as Tiber Septim, and others who now dine in Sovngarde's hallowed halls. The names of many have been forgotten, their stories slipping, unremembered, from the records of history. But they lived, and some passed on their blood.'

Sissel had to think for a moment before she understood what he meant. 'You mean, they had children?'

' _Geh,_ and their _dovah_ blood flowed also in their descendents. And thought this is not the same as having a _dovah_ soul, it means that all who came from the line of the Dragonborns of yore do have a little of the dragon in them. Some of those who lived in bygone days understood _Dovahzul,_ my people's tongue, without it being taught to them. Some could learn to Shout with ease. And others… a few simply had an understanding, of a kind, with _dov._ A connection with all dragonkind. Your dream, I believe, is a sign of such a connection.'

For a few seconds, Sissel stared at him, eyes wide. 'You mean… I might be descended from a Dragonborn?'

'I think it is… reasonable to assume so. Tell me – how many of my kind have you seen in your short time on this world?'

'Three. You, and Odahviing, and there was one, a white one, that attacked our home. That's the one that I saw first.'

'Could you tell, the moment you laid eyes on this first _dovah,_ that he was a person? That he had a mind and soul of his own? _Ni sivaas,ruz gein voth lor.'_

Hesitantly, Sissel nodded. 'Yeah, I could.'

Paarthurnax gave a slow dip of his head in acknowledgement. 'Have you heard a _dovah_ Shout?'

A combination of Jouane's books, Erandur's lessons and Ozan's stories meant that Sissel knew what this meant. 'Yeah.'

'Could you hear the words within the roar?'

'I…. yes. I didn't know what they meant, but I could tell he was saying something. Shouting something.'

Paarthurnax made a small, satisfied-sounding grunt. ' _Til mu los._ Many would have heard only a worldess roar, but to you, here was meaning, even if it was not understood. Everything that is _dovah_ calls to you. You and I, my young friend, share distant blood.'

Sissel breathed out slowly. Faint within her veins, there ran a few drops of dragon blood. Suddenly, she was more than a farmer's daughter from Rorikstead, who had been lucky enough to meet the Dragonborn. She was _special._ There was something about her that was rare and unique. The knowledge made a warm feeling spark inside her.

'Do you think…' She paused, trying to work out what exactly it was that she was trying to say. 'Do you think I was…. you know, meant to meet Ozan? Because he's Dragonborn, and so was one of my ancestors?'

The dragon let out a thoughtful humming sound. "Meant'? It is impossible for any on this world to know what is or was _meant_ to happen, even one who has lived as long as I, and may see glimpses of both past and future in the _tiid-ahraan,_ the time wound. Some say nothing is written in the stars, and that only we can choose what we become. Others say that a few have destinies written – they may be chosen for certain paths, such as being _Dovahkiin –_ but that we may still make free choice. For others, all is already determined, and the choices of mortals and dragons make no difference – '

'What?'

Paarthurnax shook himself, and gave her a slightly sheepish look. Sissel hadn't thought that dragons _could_ look sheepish. 'My apologies. _Krosis._ Forgive an old _dovah_ who rarely speaks with others. Sometimes I talk, yet say little with any meaning.' He chuckled. 'But as for your question… perhaps it is so. Or perhaps you each felt a connection through your blood, and once having met, you were drawn to each other.'

Sissel sat silently for a while, turning this over in her mind, before asking a new question. 'Paarthurnax, do you like Ozan?'

'Like him? Of course. He walks a dark path, but he is my kind, and he is a _fahdon,_ a friend.' He was silent for a moment. 'And I owe him my life.'

'You do?'

'His allies wished to kill me. He refused and spared me, because I had shown kindness to him.' He closed his eyes. 'Your _bormah_ carries darkness with him, but that does not mean there is no light at his core, or that by walking a dark path, he cannot bring light. _Rok los vulkun.'_

Sissel nodded slowly, taking this in. Ozan was an assassin, it was how he lived his life. People told him to kill, and he killed. But he had spared this old, kind and friendly dragon, because that dragon's life mattered to him.

'Do not be afraid of him, young one.' Paarthunax's voice was very gentle. 'He has a dark past, and its burdens weigh on him. Not all his choices are right. And this is why he needs the aid of one as wise as you.'

Sissel closed her eyes and thought of Jouane's words. _Family is more than shared blood._ It turned out she and Ozan did share blood after all. But all the same… she understood now, completely, what Jouane had meant. She felt the truth of it in her heart.

She stood up, stepping out from under Paarthurnax's win to stand in the snow; it was thinning now, somewhat. 'Thanks for talking to me, Paarthurnax,' she said. 'It's really helped.'

'I am glad, _kiir._ I enjoy speaking with others. It is not a pleasure I experience often. Perhaps we shall see each other again.'

'We will.' Sissel was certain enough of that. She'd ask Ozan to take her here again – she wanted to hear stories of the ancient Tongues from the this dragon's mouth. Maybe, since she had some faint dragon blood, he could teach her how to use it, to Shout in the dragon tongue. She'd like to learn the dragon language, too.

'I'm going to go and find Ozan now.' Sissel almost stuck out a hand, before remembering that Paarthurnax couldn't really shake it. 'But I'll see you again soon. There are… a lot of things I'd like to learn.'

'With Alduin gone, I have become a _mindopah,_ a teacher.' Paarthurnax spread his wings, sending snow cascading to the ground. 'I would be proud to pass on my knowledge to you.'

'Thanks.' Sissel hoped he could read human faces well enough to know what her smile meant. 'I… uh, I should go. Um. Goodbye.'

Paarthurnax bowed his head. 'Fare you well, young one. _Lok, thu'um.'_

And so Sissel strode away from the summit of Tamriel's highest mountain, feeling far older than she had when she'd arrived. It was only about a minute of picking her way along the icy path later that she found Ozan, seated on a rick with his hands clasped together.

He rose and turned on hearing her coming, and moved toward her. 'Sissel. Did you – '

Before he could finish the sentence, Sissel threw her arms around him. There was a pause; then Ozan slowly returned the gesture, pulling her close. Sissel thought of her blood father, the man Ozan had killed and replaced. He had never held her like this. Never. And she was glad, because Lemkil would never have been able to do it properly. He had no warmth in him, no love. But Ozan did, and it made Sissel feel so safe.

'You'll stay?' he murmured.

'Definitely.' _Because you need me as much as I need you. I'm going to prove to you that you can be better, and I'm going to help you get there._

Lemkil had been beyond change. Ozan wasn't.

Her foster father – no, her _father –_ let her go, gave her one of his rare smiles, and turned his head to the sky. 'Let's go home.'

He breathed in deeply and Shouted, his Voice ripping through the snow and making Sissel's skin tingle. _'ODAHVIING!'_

They stood there together, watching the snow circling down. No secrets lying between them, nothing unsaid. A father and daughter, waiting for a red dragon to appear in the sky.

'Can I ask something?' Sissel said, then frowned. 'No, sorry. Three things.'

Ozan nodded.

Sissel looked up at him. 'Some time soon, can I go and visit Britte?'

His eyebrows raised, but he didn't seem too surprised. 'Of course.'

'Great. Thanks.' True, Sissel had never really liked her sister, but still, Britte was young. She still had time to change, to grow out of being angry and bitter, Sissel had no desire to live with her again, but she knew she'd never forgive herself if she didn't at least try to help her change. And there were other people she'd like to visit at the Honourhall – like gentle, kind Constance, and Runa, who'd been her friend and hopefully still would be.

The second question was a little more risky, but Sissel had a feeling she was in a good position to ask favours of her father right now. 'The other things is – I mean, one of the other things… Can I go and study at the College of Winterhold when I'm older.'

Ozan turned his head towards her, regarding her with his dark, owl-like gaze. Then he nodded again. 'Yes.'

A surged of joy pulsed through her, and she had to fight back the urge to punch the air. 'Are you sure? I mean, I know you don't like magic.'

'I trust you to use it.'

That was enough for Sissel, so she ploughed ahead, without any preamble, to the final question – the riskiest of all. 'Why aren't you and Jenassa married?'

There was a lengthy silence. Ozan stood motionless for a few seconds.

'There are… reasons.'

'Yeah, like what?'

'Don't want to tie her down. She may want more than life with a vampire assassin.'

Sissel huffed. 'That's stupid. She lives with you, doesn't she?'

'Yes, but - '

'And has she ever said anything to you that made her think she minds you being what you are?'

'No, but – '

'And you love her, don't you?'

Another pause. Ozan breathed out slowly. 'Yes.'

'Then I think she'd be pretty happy to be tied down to you or whatever, and it's not _tying down,_ because that makes it sound bad. It's just being married. Which is a contract of reciprocal rights.' She smirked a bit as she said that last bit – it was something Erandur had told her when he'd been explaining his work to her. 'You might as well ask.'

Ozan stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. 'I'll ask Erandur for an amulet of Mara.'

' _Good.'_

There was a long, comfortable silence.

'Sissel,' Ozan said, as Odahviing's blurred shape became visible behind the crowding snowflakes.

'Mmm?'

'Thank you.'

* * *

'It was Mara who first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It was through her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It was from this love that we learned that a life lived alone is no life at all.'

Sissel was in Nightcaller Temple again – but she was not there for lessons, and the name no longer seemed right. Not now that she and Erandur and Alesan had finally constructed a proper chapel in there, with pews and an altar and a shrine. The Jarl of the Pale had even agreed to give them official funding. This was a Temple of Mara now, and behind the altar, smiling gently and warmly, Erandur was conducting his first service.

Before him, side by side, stood Ozan and Jenassa. Ozan was, for once, not wearing his hood; he had combed his hair into something resembling neatness, refreshed his white warpaint, and donned a formal tunic decorated with red, gold and black pattern in what Sissel guessed as a traditional Redguard style. Jenassa wore a dark blue dress ('only dress I own,' she'd told Sissel in a conspiratorial, girls'-secret kind of whisper, when she'd shown it to her) and had taken her hair out her normal braids so that it fell loose down her back. She was smiling broadly, and while Ozan's face was typically still, Sissel could tell he was as happy as Jenassa from the slightly awed glances he kept sending her way. As if he couldn't quite believe his luck.

The rows of pews were virtually empty, which didn't surprise Sissel at all. She was seated at the front, kitted out in a green dress she'd fallen in love with when Jenassa had taken her into Radiant Raiment in Solitude to buy clothes for the wedding. Next to her was Alesan, and next to him was a girl who looked to be a little younger than Sissel, but who had declared with some pride that she was actually several centuries old. Babette was a vampire, and part of the Dark Brotherhood, the group of assassins Ozan worked for. She was nice enough, for all that, despite her uncanny eagerness to recount stories of her assassinations.

On the adjacent pew sat the man Babette had arrived with. He was, like Ozan, a Redguard, and again like Ozan he carried a scimitar and wore a hood. Even in the Temple. He'd introduced himself as Nazir, but made no further conversation. Sissel found herself more intrigued by him and Babette than scared. Maybe they were killers, but so was Ozan, and these were the people he trusted enough to work alongside and call friends.

On Nazir's right was someone Sissel had heard much about, and had been looking forward to meeting – another vampire, a full-grown one this time, named Serana. Her, Sissel liked. She'd introduced himself with a smile, had quickly revealed that she shared Sissel's interest in magic, and, when Sissel had explained that her birth father had been cruel to her, Serana had nodded sympathetically and said, 'I know a bit about that.'

And that was everyone. Which was a bit sad, because it was a shame that Ozan had few friends. All the same, it felt right, because there shouldn't be anyone here except those Ozan trusted, and they had that. The only people missing, really, were dragons, and they wouldn't have fitted inside. They probably didn't understand mortal marriages anyway.

So here they were. Only eight of them, but they didn't need anything more.

'We gather here today,' Erandur was saying, 'under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, in joy and in hardship.'

Sissel didn't try to stop herself from grinning. Thinking of her family's future felt so warm, because it looked so bright. It had been a month since she'd spoken to Paarthurnax on the Throat of the World, and in that time, she felt like everything had come together. She had tied off the loose ends of her past. She'd visited Rorikstead, seen Jouane and Erik and all the others again. She'd gone to the Honourhall and visited Runa and Constance – and Britte. Her sister was still surly and sullen, but that streak of pointless cruelty seemed to be fading. She'd insisted that she had no interest in coming to live with Sissel - for which Sissel was grateful – but they had at least spoken, and parted amicably. Which made Sissel feel like her old family – her violent father and vindictive sister – had been somehow… sorted. Put away neatly, so that Sissel could be part of a new family.

And here it was in front of her.

Erandur turned to face Jenassa. 'Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?'

Still smiling, Jenassa dipped her head. 'I do. Now and forever.'

Turning to Ozan, Erandur repeated the question. Ozan's eyes never left Jenassa's face as he replied, firmly, gravely, and wonderingly. 'I do. Now and forever.'

Erandur raised his arms. 'Then by the authority of Mara, the Divine of love, I declare this couple to be wed.'

There was a moment of silence. Then Ozan turned to Jenassa, drew her to him, and very tenderly kissed her.

Alesan jumped up instantly, clapping, and Sissel quickly rose to join him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the others doing the same.

Her heart felt very full. Less than a year ago, she'd been looking at a future spent under the fists of her father and sister, pulling up weeds and grappling with farm tools. From there she would have had to find work in the tiny place that was Rorikstead, probably living out her years wiping tables in the inn. And now?

Now, she had the promise of studying magic. She'd fought a dragon, and befriended two more. She'd learned so much about the world, and about herself. And most important of all -

'You've got a proper family now, Sissel,' Alesan said over the applause, as if he'd heard her thoughts.

 _We were already a family,_ Sissel thought, though she said nothing.

Babette was grinning. 'A Redguard vampire, a Dunmer, and a Nord kid? Strange family.'

Sissel looked at her parents, holding each other in front of the altar. They saw her watching, and smiled. She beamed back.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, it is a strange family. But it's a good one. And it's _mine.'_

* * *

 _END_


End file.
